Sweet From the Vine

by Jacquie Underdown

  All three came back around eleven o’clock—they were muddy, quiet and frowning as they slipped into the boardroom.

  Matilda didn’t see them again until after lunch when Sam came into her office. ‘Matilda, would you mind coming in to the boardroom?’

  She shook her head, stood. ‘Not at all.’ She grabbed a notepad and pen and followed him.

  Frowns still remained on Tom and Mitch’s faces.

  She sat down next to Sam. Tom and Mitch opposite. ‘Did you notice how frosty the grass was this morning?’ Sam asked.

  Matilda nodded.

  Mitch drew a deep breath and linked his hands behind his head, elbows out to the side. Two deep lines of tension sat between his brows. ‘We are expecting cold temperatures for the next two nights as well.’

  ‘And what does that mean for the vines?’

  ‘Even after all the precautions we’ve taken—delayed pruning, fans, and barrel fires to keep the temperatures from getting below zero—we’ve already suffered some hefty losses. About a third of our riesling and merlot have been affected.’

  ‘That’s … a lot, right?’

  Tom rubbed his jaw and nodded. ‘Massive.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘And that’s just the start. We don’t know what’s going to happen over the next couple of nights.’

  ‘We’re going to fall well short with our future supply. Well short,’ Sam said.

  ‘So, what do other vineyards do when this happens?’ she asked.

  ‘Take the hit and lower supply and hope like hell the next season’s vintage comes through un-harmed,’ Mitch said.

  ‘Or outsource the wine,’ Tom said.

  She nodded in understanding now. That’s why they needed her. They needed to know how those two options will affect everything she is doing now to promote the vineyard and their new line. A new line that had the intention of putting them at the forefront of customer’s minds.

  ‘We anticipate by the end of the week, half of our supply will be destroyed. Some buds might still break through, but it will affect the quality of the grapes come harvest time. I’d rather put out no wine than poor quality,’ Mitch said.

  ‘Half?’ Matilda asked, mouth suddenly dry. This was a devastating blow.

  ‘We anticipate frost damage. Each year we get it, but with global warming, everything happened so much earlier. Except for the frost, which usually hits us early spring … but this year …’ He lowered his eyes to the desk, his lips twisting into an angry snarl.

  ‘You need a presence on shelves. If a customer walks into their favourite bottle-shop looking for your brand and they don’t find it, they’ll switch. There is loyalty to brands, but if time and time again you don’t have the stock, they’ll switch. Everything you’ve asked me to produce with this new line will be for naught.’

  ‘So you think we outsource?’ Mitch asked, meeting her gaze, his shoulders slumping. This was obviously not what he had wanted to hear. And she could appreciate that—they worked hard to make their own unique wine. To then bring a generic winery on board just to meet supply would hurt their uniqueness to some extent.

  She nodded. ‘It doesn’t have to be negative. We can source from a winery that has a similar culture—maybe someone new with great quality vintages, but is still trying to gain some traction or credibility in the market. We can spin it positively—let the public see it as an expansion. As a hand-up. A step in diversification. You can create some handmade blends—limited time, or if they are well received, this partnership can extend into the future. It will be almost like an insurance policy.’

  ‘And you’d be able to handle all that?’ Mitch asked.

  They didn’t know the half of her abilities. For the last ten years, she lived, breathed, studied and practiced marketing. As long as they didn’t drop the ball completely in the grape-growing department, she had the rest covered. ‘I’ll give it my absolute best.’

  The three brothers released a unified sigh of relief and nodded.

  ‘Thanks, Matilda. We’ll discuss this further, but we appreciate your help,’ Sam said.

  She smiled warmly, got to her feet, and left the boardroom. She felt guilty that excitement was flowing through her body when they looked as deflated as empty balloons. But that’s what she was here for—to take on the aspects of this business that they couldn’t do themselves.

  By four o’clock the men finally left the boardroom. Mitch was still forlorn when he stopped by her office and stuck his head in. Surely after all this time running the vineyard, he’d be used to set-backs. Maybe not as big as this, but still.

  ‘Thanks for your help in there earlier. We’ll have a meeting about it tomorrow to discuss specific avenues. We’ve put some feelers out with potential suppliers. But I’ll fill you in more tomorrow.’ He managed a strained smiled. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Oh … you’re heading off?’ she asked.

  ‘Um, yeah, I had a prior arrangement.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  He strode off, leaving behind the lingering scent that she had come to associate with him—a specific subtle aftershave that spoke to her biology like a warm caress might.

  She’d passed a man while out shopping on the weekend who smelled the same and instantly her mind was filled with thoughts of Mitch.

  As much as she had tried to supress the idea that she could still be attracted to him, it was simply a case of lying to herself. She did find him attractive—maybe more than ever.

  Such a shame he wasn’t ready because she wasn’t in any position to wait for him.

  When she was leaving work that afternoon, she walked out with Sam. Maybe it was beyond her position as a marketing manager to ask after Mitch, but as a friend, she felt it was well within her rights. ‘Is everything okay with Mitch? He seemed to take this hit quite hard.’

  Sam frowned, stopped walking and met her gaze. ‘It’s Rachel’s birthday today.’

  Matilda’s shoulders hunched and sympathy surged through her veins.

  ‘He wasn’t meant to be here today, let alone up all night trying to ease the frost damage. He’d organised a ceremony with Sophie and Amy, so he took off early for that.’

  Matilda nodded. ‘That would explain it.’

  ‘He’ll be okay. Don’t you worry about it,’ Sam said, picking up the pace again.

  On the way home, it was never more apparent that considering rekindling an ancient romance with Mitch was futile.

  Time meant nothing to a grieving heart, obviously. He needed the space and freedom to deal with his wife’s loss. In the meantime, she would support him as much as she could here at work. Nothing more. That was the sensible thing to do. The right thing to do.

  He had to get on with his life. And she had to get on with hers just like she had planned.

  She dialled Mum’s number and let the call come through her car’s hands-free connection.

  ‘Hi, Mati, how was your day?’ Mum asked.

  ‘It was fine. I’m calling you quickly to say that I think I would be interested in going on that date with Brad Meyers.’

  Mum giggled excitedly. ‘Oh, excellent. I’ll let Jennifer know. You’re happy for me to give him your phone number?’

  She shrugged. ‘Sure. Why not. It will be good to start getting out.’

  ‘I agree.’

  If only her heart wasn’t beating to the memory of Mitch Mathews.

  Chapter 10

  Mitch inclined his face to the darkening sky above him as the three pink balloons soared higher and higher, edging towards the clear sky. Not a single cloud, only burnished tones of shadow mingling with bright colour as the sun slipped behind the mountains.

  He stood with Amy and Sophie on an expansive field behind the park located just off Main Street. They were the only three and how deeply he felt that solitude.

  The evening temperatures had plummeted, but he didn’t even think about the vineyard and the frost conditions anticipated again tonight. All he had in his mind now was R
achel.

  He pulled Sophie in tighter to his body, suddenly cold, defeated. ‘Say Happy Birthday, Mummy,’ he managed through his aching throat that squeezed as the words pushed past the ball of glass stuck there.

  ‘Mum, Mum,’ Sophie said, mesmerised by the ever shrinking globes of colour.

  Amy moved in closer and slung an arm around his back. She rested her head against his arm. ‘Happy Birthday, Rachel,’ she whispered, words choked.

  God, he missed Rachel. He missed her with an intensity of emotion he never knew he possessed. The wound in his chest was still so raw and right now, it pulsated with hollowness left by her absence and the intense craving he had to see her again.

  This would never get easier. Not one single day. Each breath was filled with her loss. Each heartbeat was for the love they shared, that he still held for her.

  ‘Happy Birthday, my angel. I love you so much,’ he whispered, all he could manage.

  After taking flowers to Rachel’s gravestone and saying a few words to her there, he had been able to keep his emotions at bay. He hadn’t wanted today to be about sadness. He wanted it to be a celebration of Sophie’s mum’s life—for Sophie’s sake. He didn’t want her to equate her mother with pain.

  But now as the balloons skirted away from him, it was too symbolic of how it was for him—Rachel was so far out of his reach, getting farther and farther away as time passed and the laws of the universe kept him grounded, incapable of being with her.

  The absoluteness of death was what destroyed him. The absoluteness that she was not here, and she was not coming back, and Sophie would never ever meet her mother—no matter if it were his birthday or Sophie’s birthday or their wedding anniversary or Christmas—it didn’t matter, Rachel was gone. Absolutely.

  His chest heaved again. His bottom lip trembled, but he swallowed hard, bit down the grief. He was good at that now. Hiding it. Ignoring it. No other choice; it was that or lose himself to the sorrow.

  He nearly had in the beginning. Those were the darkest days of his life.

  Beside him, Amy sniffled and wiped the tears from her eyes. Sophie turned to him and touched his face with her cold hand, then pointed up to the sky. ‘Gone,’ she said as though the balloons had magically disappeared before her eyes instead of their long slow ascent into the sky.

  ‘You’re right, Sophie. Gone.’

  After Mitch dropped Amy home, he made a quick dinner for himself and Sophie. Amy had baked him a birthday cake to share with Sophie, so they had a piece of that before Sophie was barely able to hold her eyes open.

  He gave her a bottle until she fell asleep in his arms. With her breaths gentle and steady, he placed her in her cot, then went to the bathroom for a long shower.

  Under the streaming flow of warm water, he finally let himself cry. He cried so hard, he sobbed and his chest ached. He couldn’t stop it, didn’t stop. It was best to let it all out, every last drop. So that’s what he did.

  When he eventually finished, his eyes sore, his nose blocked, he stepped out of the shower. He didn’t look at himself in the mirror, afraid of the pain he’d see in his eyes. He dressed, then cut himself another piece of cake. As he sat on the lounge eating it, a memory stirred.

  He was barely eight years old when he woke to the sound of voices coming from the dining room. The house was otherwise dark. His brothers were asleep. He rubbed his eyes as he stumbled, bleary eyed from his bed, down the hall.

  A light glowed from the dining room. His feet stopped all of their own volition as soon as he heard the crying. Mum. He remained in the shadows of the hall, quiet, but listening.

  ‘I can’t believe he died so suddenly. Your father was always such a fit man. When they visited, he’d be out helping you in the vineyards or chopping firewood as though he was younger than you,’ Mum said with words squeezed and broken by tears.

  It took a long moment for the reality of those words to sink into Mitch’s brain. But the moment he realised that his grandpa had died, a tingling coldness crept over his skin and up his throat. His breaths were thin. A hot throbbing pain started in his chest and amplified the more seconds that ticked by.

  Dad sighed. ‘I know. It came as a shock to me too. Mum said it was a heart attack. She found him on his back on the floor of the shed. Cold and blue.’ Dad cleared his throat.

  Mum hiccupped her next cry.

  ‘Come on, love,’ soothed Dad. ‘It will be okay.’

  Tears streamed down Mitch’s cheeks as a deep sadness overcame him. Grandpa was dead.

  ‘Whatever will your mother do now?’ Mum’s voice was deep and rutted. Mitch had never heard her sound like that before. ‘I can’t even imagine.’

  ‘I’m here and I’ll take care of her,’ Dad said.

  Mitch wiped at his cheeks and sniffled. He couldn’t understand how Dad wasn’t crying. Grandpa had just died and he wasn’t even crying.

  ‘With Dad now gone, the responsibility falls to me,’ his father continued. ‘Mum will move onto the vineyard. She can live in the workers’ cottage, so she still has her own privacy. I’ll make sure she’s fine.’

  Silence hung between his parents for a long while. Then, his mother’s quiet voice said, ‘You’re a good, strong and responsible man, Stephen. I’m very proud to have you as my husband.’

  Only then did Mitch realise why Dad wasn’t crying—that’s not what fathers did. They held strong and took care of the family because at times like this, that’s what was needed.

  Chairs scraped against the floors and tea cups chinked.

  Mitch quickly crept away, back up the hall, before they found him eavesdropping. When in his bed, he looked up to the ceiling through the night-time shadows and wiped his eyes.

  Despite the heaviness of loss sitting painfully hot in his chest, he had to try and be brave like Dad because one day, as the eldest boy, the responsibility to take care of the family would fall to him too.

  A knock came at the front door, snapping Mitch out of his reverie. He looked through to the front door screen. Georgia.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘There’s cake here. Just grab a plate and fork on your way through.’

  She did.

  He dished her up a piece and she sat down on the lounge across from him. ‘I didn’t want to leave you up here alone on a day like today.’

  His next breath out was a combination of relief and melancholy. Georgia had been a widow for five years now. That was one of the reasons he had hired her to be Sophie’s nanny—she understood exactly what he was going through.

  They had bonded over their wounds. And he owed her a lot to his sanity because for a long time after Rachel died, he was anything but sane.

  ‘How did the ceremony go?’ she asked with her Texan twang that was soothing to him. Her voice was deep and husky. Motherly to some degree.

  ‘As well as it could. Actually, no, it was really lovely.’

  ‘How did Sophie go?’

  He moved the cake around on his plate with a fork. ‘She thought it was a fun outing. Completely oblivious.’

  Georgia nodded. ‘That’s what you wanted.’

  ‘Yeah, I wanted it to be fun for her.’

  Georgia sighed and offered a sympathetic smile. ‘But not so fun for you.’

  He lowered his eyes as he shook his head.

  ‘It’s tough, Mitch. Every day, for a long time. But you’re doing the best that can be expected.’

  He shovelled cake into his mouth and swallowed it. ‘How long?’ he asked, trying hard to keep the need from his voice.

  ‘How long, what?’

  ‘How long until my heart doesn’t feel like it’s getting eaten away by acid?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. My heart still feels like that. But I can live with it. There was a time when it was my sole focus. Now it just sits in the background of everything. Never gone, but not quite as present.’

  He was silent for a long time, mulling that reality over. Deep down, he would never stop loving Rachel, so he
would never stop hurting. ‘I kissed another woman,’ he blurted before he could even consider his words.

  Georgia didn’t flinch. She nodded. ‘That’s bound to happen. You’re young. Handsome. Life doesn’t stop.’

  He placed his plate on the table and rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I feel so guilty.’

  ‘That happens too. It’s a process.’

  He lifted his head, met her gaze with an arched brow. ‘It’s a process?’

  She smiled. ‘I don’t know what you want to hear, Mitch. Grief is a process. One day you might wake up and want to do more than kiss. Maybe you might even decide you want to get married again. You might feel guilty about that. Or you might feel right about it. Perhaps both.’

  A small smile flittered across his lips. ‘You’re not helping.’

  She shrugged. ‘Only you can help yourself. It all comes down to you and how much time you need.’

  It took a while for him to formulate the right words. ‘Have you ever … have you …?’

  ‘I had a brief relationship with a good friend six months after Ronny died. But, it didn’t work out, and I’ve not had the inclination since.’

  ‘Did you feel guilty?’

  She nodded. ‘Sure, I felt guilty. And then when I ended it with my friend, I felt guilty for not moving on like Ronny had wanted me to. I was guilty for living and guilty for not living.’

  Mitch could understand that completely—some days he didn’t know which way to turn, how to think, who to be because he was always referencing everything back to the fact that Rachel was missing out on living altogether.

  ‘But in the end, I really had to come to terms with the fact that Ronny was gone, and I needed to do what was best for me. Because that’s all anyone in our position can do. What Rachel wanted for you or what you think you need to do for Rachel, it won’t change a thing. Nothing is going to bring her back or appease her death. What you want for yourself and for your daughter and for your family is all that matters now. Living for the dead isn’t living, it’s dying too.’

  Her words were like a slap. They had the taste of insensitivity. But he knew that wasn’t what Georgia had intended. She was the most sensitive, empathetic woman he knew.