Once Upon a Wine (9 page)

“I
t smells like a square dance out here.” Cammie wrinkled her nose as she and Kat arrived at the farm equipment auction.

“No, it doesn't. It smells like horse stables. In hell.” Kat paused to sneeze three times in succession. “And seasonal allergies.”

Cammie breathed through her mouth and slathered on an extra coat of sunscreen. She'd assumed that the auction would be held indoors, with a podium and some semblance of order, but this was nothing more than an open dirt field lined with tractors, backhoes, and combines. A group of men, all of whom seemed to know one another, eyed Cammie and Kat with a mixture of curiosity and derision.

When she and Kat had arrived a few minutes before, the smell of dust and manure had felt overpowering. But now that her nose had acclimated, she could detect ripe undernotes of hay, fertilizer, tobacco, and body odor.

“Maybe we should go home and change.” Cammie glanced
down at her high-heeled sandals, which were sinking into the soil. “We need better footwear.” She glanced at the men, all of whom were clad in mud-spattered jeans, ancient T-shirts, and sweat. So much sweat. She could discern an actual rivulet of perspiration snaking down the neck of the guy in front of her. “And we don't really blend.”

Kat, who was herself wearing jeans, agreed. “I knew I shouldn't have ironed this shirt.” She shook her head at Cammie's yellow cotton sundress and woven straw sunhat. “You are way overdressed.” She indicated a man a few yards away. “Look how tight that dude's jeans are. Is that the John Deere version of jeggings? They're like a tourniquet.”

Cammie surveyed the sea of silver belt buckles and sun-bleached cowboy hats. “Maybe we should try digging out the vines one more time.”

“Too late. Let's make the rounds and figure out what we're going to buy.” Kat led the way and together, they strolled the perimeter of the field. None of the rough-hewn men spoke to them or even made eye contact. Cammie hadn't felt so awkward and self-conscious since middle school.

“Is it just me, or do these all look the same?” Cammie whispered as she and Kat regarded a trio of tractors.

“What are you talking about? This one's way rustier than that one.” Kat said. “Let's go over the plan again. We don't need anything fancy. It just has to be able to furrow the fields and yank out a bunch of grapevines. Ooh, let's get that one.” She pointed out a tractor that had probably once been red. It was hard to determine the original color under all the rust.

Cammie tilted her head to assess the tractor. With a big, rectangular grille, two huge tires in back and two small ones in front, it would have fit right into an animated movie or an Old MacDonald storybook. “That one? Really?”

“It's red.”

“So?”

Kat shrugged. “So it's cute.”

“It's not a sports car, Kat.”

“Yeah, but if we pretend it is, it'll be more fun to drive.” Kat succumbed to another sneezing fit as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. “It's Josh. Should I—”

“Take it.” Cammie waved her cousin away from the throng. “Talk to your husband. I can handle the bidding.”

Kat blew her nose. “You're sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.”

Cammie absolutely could not handle the bidding. The auction commenced without fanfare—all the men just clustered around a backhoe and started yelling. After about fifteen seconds, a barrel-chested, bearded guy in overalls announced, “Sold!” and everyone moved on to the next vehicle.

“Oh.” Cammie hurried to keep up. “We're starting? Okay.”

Three minutes later, the bearded auctioneer had sold two backhoes and two tractors, and Cammie felt rivulets of sweat trickling down her own neck. He spoke so quickly, she couldn't understand what the current bid was, although that was irrelevant since she couldn't seem to figure out how to bid, anyway.

She raised her hand. The men ignored her.

She waved her sunhat. The men ignored her.

She tried to push her way through to the front. The men ignored her, selectively blind and deaf.

Sales whizzed by in a blur of rapid-fire yelling and cursing. The crowd shuffled from one piece of equipment to the next. All of a sudden, there were only three tractors left. Cammie's desperation segued into full-fledged panic. What if she couldn't get a tractor? How would they get rid of the dead vines? What would happen to the rest of the harvest? How on earth was she going to—

“Hey!” A deep voice boomed out from the back of the crowd.
“Guys.”

All conversation ceased. Heads swiveled toward the back of the crowd. The only sound was a couple of tobacco chewers chomping away.

Cammie didn't have to look. She knew who had spoken.

“Give the lady a chance.”

There ensued another moment of silence as everyone directed their attention to Cammie.

“Oh.” She straightened her shoulders and smiled. No one smiled back. They coughed and muttered and waited with palpable impatience. But they gave her a chance.

She pointed to the rusty red tractor Kat had remarked upon earlier. “That one's great. I'll take that one.” She named the price she and Kat had agreed upon, too flustered to try to bargain.

The auctioneer glanced toward the back of the crowd, then nodded. “Sold.”

Cammie literally jumped for joy, then turned to locate Ian. He stood away from the group, watching her with the faintest trace of a smile.

She wended her way back to him, skittering sideways as a wad of freshly spit tobacco landed near her foot. “What are you doing here?”

He shifted his weight and lifted the brim of his cap, gazing down at her. “What are
you
doing here?”

She adjusted the strap of her sundress and tried to explain. “We have some dead vines. Well, they're either dead or diseased, and I'm worried that whatever they have is going to spread. We need to pull them out—so says the Internet—and also, we'll need to, um”—she strained to think of the correct terminology—“furrow the field.”

“Furrow the field.”

“That's right. I think.” She twisted her hands together.

He watched her intently. “You're pretty hot when you talk like a farmer.”

Cammie didn't know where to look. She could feel her thin cotton dress clinging to her back. “Thanks for your help.”

“My pleasure.”

“But I was holding my own, just so you know. I would have figured it out.”

His smile deepened. “I have no doubt.”

Kat bounded back into the field and looked around in dismay. “It's over already? What'd I miss?”

“I got the red one.” Cammie gestured to the Old MacDonald tractor. “This lovely, um . . .”

“International Harvester,” Ian supplied.

“This lovely International Harvester.”

Kat high-fived her. “It'll be like the autobahn on the back forty.”

Cammie rested her hand on the steering wheel, then pulled away when she felt the gritty combination of dirt and oil. “Here's hoping they'll wash it before they deliver it.”

Ian laughed.

“What?”

“Wash it. Deliver it. You kill me.”

“They're not going to deliver it?” Kat demanded.

Ian kept laughing and pointed out a little black puddle beneath the tractor. “You're going to have to change the oil, too.”

“Details, details.” Kat charged after the auctioneer, yelling, “Hey! Take my money and give me the keys! Will you take a check?”

Cammie turned back to Ian. “Can you believe it? I officially own a tractor. What next? Black is white? Up is down?”

“Next, you have to learn to drive it.” His voice held a hint of a challenge.

She folded her arms and regarded the International Harvester.
“I drove the Los Angeles freeways every day. I think I can handle a tractor in an open field.”

He sidled closer, just inside her personal space. “If you ask nicely, I'll come over and show you.”

She sidled a bit closer, too. “Oh yeah? That sounds kind of like a date.”

“More like a tutorial.”

“Ooh.” She framed her face with the brim of her hat. “I'm excited.”

“You should be,” he drawled. “How about Friday?”

She considered her options. “Let's say Thursday.”

“Big plans for Friday?”

“Friday night's for dates. You said this was a farming tutorial.” She smiled sweetly.

He didn't hesitate. “Fair enough. See you Thursday. Five o'clock?”

“Six,” she countered.

“Five thirty.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She closed her eyes and inhaled, picking up the scent of fresh soil and cut grass.

“Sold.”

“I
s the tractor all ready to go?” Cammie asked when she returned to the house after yet another day of weeding and watering the vines. She was covered in dust and sweat, but felt surprisingly energized after a full day's work. “Ian's going to be here in half an hour.”

“No. They just dropped it off about an hour ago.” Kat sat down on the hall floor, kicked off her flip-flops, and put on her sneakers. “It was supposed to be here yesterday, but they wouldn't take a personal check, so I had them call Josh and he worked everything out.”

“You got them to deliver it? Good for you.”

“Yeah, I had to pay extra. But now it's leaking all over the barn floor. We better go give it some more oil before Ian gets here for your, ahem, tutorial.”

“You should worry less about my, ahem, tutorial and more about your own relationship. When are you and Josh going to see each other again?”

Kat took her time tying her shoelaces. “Unknown.”

“Do you want to see him?”

“Kind of. I do but I don't.”

“Fake it till you make it, remember? Call him.”

“Why do you care?”

“I care because I love you, I love Josh, and I want you two to work this out and be happy.” Cammie took off her sunhat and shook out her hair. “I believe in you.”

“I'm glad somebody does.”

“Call and invite him for this weekend.”

“
You
call him and invite him for the weekend.”

“Fine, I will.” Cammie whipped out her phone.

“Stop. Stop!” Kat got to her feet. “Okay, I'll call him.”

Cammie waited.

“As soon as we're done with the tractor.” When Kat opened the screen door, Jacques materialized at her side.

“Is it dinnertime?” Kat asked as she took in the panting and beseeching canine eyes.

“No, he wants to help with the tractor. He's a farm dog,” Cammie explained. “Just roll with it.”

They headed out to the barn, which was dark and suffocatingly humid, to inspect the tractor. Jacques opted to wait outside in the grass.

Cammie folded her arms as she regarded the dilapidated red machine. “It just looks more jacked up every time I see it.”

“It's about to look slightly less jacked up.” Kat pointed out six bottles of motor oil resting on the dusty concrete floor. “At some point, I'll have to change the oil, but we can just top it off for now.”

“And how do we do that?”

“I'm so glad you asked. I did some reading while you were out whipping the grapes into shape.” Kat extracted a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “Behold, instructions on how to add oil to an International Harvester.”

“All right, let's get down to it. I've got a tutorial in thirty minutes and I have to shower.”

“Here we go.” Kat gave directions with great authority. “First thing we do is check the oil level.”

She lay down on the concrete and scooted underneath the tractor. “Come on. What're you waiting for?”

“If that thing falls on you, it'll kill you,” Cammie said.

“Fall on me? How would that even happen?” Kat scoffed. “Get down here. Oh, but first, grab the wrench. I left it next to the oil.”

Cammie obligingly grabbed the wrench and got down there. The underside of the tractor was impossibly claustrophobic, reeking of motor oil and diesel.

“I'll give you five minutes and then I'm showering,” she told Kat.

“Then I better work fast.” Kat applied the wrench to a rusty bolt and twisted. “Oof. This thing is stuck.”

“Maybe it's a sign,” Cammie suggested. “A sign that we should deal with this later.”

“There is no ‘later.' There is only now.” Kat grimaced as she twisted the wrench with all her might. “I think it moved. Where's the oil pan?”

“What oil p—” Cammie broke off as a spray of black oil streamed onto her forehead. She flailed around on the filthy floor, shielding her face with her hands.

“Whoops.” Kat sounded cheery and chipper as she tightened the bolt again. “Got a little carried away there.”

Cammie gagged and sputtered, wiping her eyes.

“The good news is it wasn't rusted shut.”

“Kat.” Cammie wriggled out from under the tractor, dripping oil.

“Sorry. My bad.”

“Kat.”

Kat peered up at her. “I'll make it up to you. What can I do?”

Cammie mulled this over for a moment. “Call Josh.”

“But—”

“I'm covered in used tractor oil and dust, Kat. I smell like a truck stop. Do not test me.”

“Okay, okay. I'll call him.”

But Cammie wasn't finished. “Ask him to have dinner on Saturday.”

“All right, but you have to come with us.” Kat emerged from beneath the tractor and stood up. “I can't make it through another meal like we had last time. It was deathly awkward.”

“Look at me.” Cammie held out her arms. “Do I look like I'm in any mood to chaperone you people?”

Kat nibbled her lower lip. “Please?”

“Ugh.” Cammie wiped her face on the hem of her T-shirt, realizing too late that she'd left oil stains all over the fabric. “Fine.”

“Thank you. You're a rock star.” Kat pulled out her phone. “I'll text him right now. Wow, look at the time. You better go shower. No offense, but you look like a farmer.”

•   •   •

While she shampooed her hair and shaved her legs, Cammie reflected that dating in Los Angeles had conditioned her to keep her expectations low and her bullshit detector finely tuned. Every time she sat down to have coffee with a new prospect, she had the feeling that he was looking over her shoulder just in case something better came along.

That was the thing about Los Angeles: Something better
always
came along. A younger girlfriend with bigger boobs. A newer, faster European sports car. A hot lead on a major studio deal that was mere minutes from being signed. How could anyone be expected to commit when the carousel of shiny new temptations was always turning?

Cammie had become as guilty of this as anyone else. She'd spent the past few years telling herself that she'd be happy as soon as she got a bigger apartment, made a profit at her dream job, found the love of her life.

She hadn't accomplished any of that, of course. She'd tried her best, given it her all, and ended up completely bankrupt, in more ways than one. But as she turned off the shower and wrapped her wet hair in a fluffy towel turban, she knew that she had something worthwhile to show for all her trials and tribulations in California.

Her magic jeans.

Blue, soft, and produced by an obscure Moroccan designer whose name Cammie couldn't even pronounce, these jeans were the real-life equivalent of airbrushing her lower half. She'd tried them on at the urging of a salesperson on commission at a boutique on Robertson Boulevard, and once she'd put them on, she never wanted to take them off. Her only regret was that she hadn't bought multiple pairs.

She was still drying her hair and debating her lipstick shade when she heard the crunch of tires on the driveway.

“Cam!” Kat hollered up the stairs.

“Coming!” Cammie stopped fussing, took a calming breath, and walked her magic-jeans-clad ass downstairs to talk farming with the one man she'd sworn she'd never farm with.

•   •   •

“I'll give you this—at least you got the soil right.” Ian greeted her in the entryway, his expression both impressed and incredulous.

Cammie paused on the second step and struck a pose. “Hello to you, too.”

“This is the best ground for growing grapes in all of Sussex County.” He was too busy looking at the house and the fields to be awestruck by her beauty. “I didn't realize the owners were selling.”

“Neither did I—this is all my aunt's doing.” Cammie gave up waiting for him to ogle her and descended the final steps.

He continued to look at everything but her. “Why'd your aunt buy it?”

“I believe a bucket list was involved.”

He nodded and finally gave her his full attention. “And here we are.”

“Here we are.” She looked into his warm brown eyes and her anxiety ebbed away.

“You ready to get acquainted with your tractor?” He started rolling up his sleeves.

“We can't.” She gave him a quick rundown of the oil fiasco. “Kat says it's not safe to drive right now.”

“It's not!” called Kat from the parlor, where she'd positioned herself for maximum eavesdropping potential. “Plus, I think the battery's dead. I can't get the engine started.”

“So we can't have our tutorial. Not tonight, anyway.” She had no idea how he'd respond to this.

Ian kept looking at her, assessing. “All right, then let's take a walk.”

“A walk?” Cammie frowned.

“Yeah. I want to see the grapevines.”

She squinted up at him. “So now is this a date?”

“It's a walk.” He paused and checked his phone as an alarm sounded. His expression tensed as he read the message on the screen.

“Everything okay?” Cammie asked.

“Yeah.” He glanced back up. “Just a weather alert. There's a heat advisory for tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Cammie tried to sound casual. “Which app are you using?”

He told her, and Cammie made a mental note to download it later.

“Let me get you something to drink.” She led him to the kitchen, where a strawberry pie was cooling on the counter, filling the room with a mouthwatering aroma. Then she glanced at the top of the refrigerator, where the strawberry wine was still fermenting. It wasn't ready yet.

“Iced tea?” she offered.

One corner of his mouth tugged up. “We need something stronger than iced tea.”

“We only have really bad wine. Really, really bad wine. Like, someone should be in jail for this wine.”

“I'll drink it if you will.”

They headed out to the fields with plastic cups of really, really bad wine in their hands. The fading sunlight cast a golden glow across the vineyard. Cammie inhaled deeply, smelling sky and soil and grapes, and relaxed to the point that she could stop focusing on herself and start focusing on him. As he walked along a row of vines, she noticed that he, too, appeared to have a pair of magic jeans.

She was smiling when he turned around to face her, and her expression seemed to take him off guard.

“What?” He sounded wary.

She started talking and couldn't stop. “I have no clue what I'm doing. I'm reading as much as I can and watching a billion videos on wine making on YouTube, but none of it's going to matter if all the grapes die before the harvest.”

“The grapes aren't going to die.” He stated this as a fact. “You're going to keep them alive.”

“You don't know that.” She pointed to a shriveled brown leaf on the nearest vine. “Look! Dead already.”

He plucked the leaf off and tossed it to the ground. “So you prune. No problem. You'll focus on quality, not quantity.”

“But what if they all die?” She couldn't keep the fear out of her
voice. “A bunch of vines already died back there.” She pointed to the other side of the hill. “Hence the tractor.”

Ian pointed out the rosebushes at the end of every row of vines. “Watch the roses. They're your early-warning system. If there are bugs or mildew or rot, the roses will show it first.”

“Oh.” She felt the tiniest twinge of relief. “I was wondering why those were there.”

“They're there to help you. Check them every day.”

Amid the rows of full, lush rosebushes, she'd noticed one that didn't fit in. It was scrawny and sparse, with thin green tendrils that clung to the grapevine stake. She pointed it out to Ian. “What's up with that one?”

He strode over to examine it. After inspecting the stalk and the leaves, he crouched down to look at the base and roots. “It's new. And it's a mistake.”

“A mistake?”

“Yeah, it's a climbing rose.” He showed her a tiny yellow metal tag at the base of the plant. “It shouldn't be here. It's the wrong kind and it's really young—it's not going to bloom for at least two more years.”

“Who planted it, do you think?”

“Someone who didn't know what they were doing. We can pull it out right now.” He looked enthused by the prospect.

“No.” Cammie felt sorry for the poor little plant. “It's not doing any harm.”

“It's not doing any good, either.”

“I have bigger problems than a climbing rose,” Cammie assured him. “Like keeping the grapes alive.”

Ian stood up, still scowling at the errant, bloomless rose vine. “You'll do fine. Remember the strawberries?”

She didn't have to ask for clarification. “Of course.”

“You kept those alive.”

“So did you,” she said. “For seven years now. What happened?”