Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Daisy
“Ready?” Beckett asks, handing me a thermos of coffee.
“I am so ready.” This is what we’ve been working toward. My excitement is so palpable I can taste it on my tongue.
It’s dark, and there’s a chill in the air when we leave the house at two in the morning.
Dew clings to my work boots and I’m shivering in my hoodie. It’s a good thirty degrees cooler than it is in the daytime, but we want to ensure that the grapes are still cool when they reach the winemaking facility so we’ll be harvesting at night.
The spotlights on the scaffolds shine as bright as stadium lights illuminating the pinot noir vineyard block where we’ll be picking tonight. About twenty people are milling around, waiting for instructions when we arrive at the meeting spot.
“Listen up,” Beckett says, commanding everyone’s attention. “I want you all to sign in. If your name is on the list, that means you’ve completed all the necessary forms and got them back to me. If your name is not on the list, that means you didn’t fill out the forms and you won’t be on tonight’s crew. And for that, I feel truly sorry for you. Who would want to miss a night of harvesting under the stars?”
A few people laugh. There’s a buzz of excitement in the air.
“Everyone gets a headlamp,” Beckett says. “You need to wear it. No exceptions. We don’t want anyone to lose their finger. Wear the gloves. And use the snips provided.” He points to the crates filled with supplies then carries on giving instructions until everyone on the crew knows what’s expected of them.
“When you fill a bucket, you empty it into one of the crates on the trailer nearest to you. We want the grapes to reach the winery in pristine condition, which means you want to keep the clusters intact. Leave the green grapes on the vine. They’re not ready.”
While he carries on making sure everyone knows their job and what’s expected of them, I can’t help but be impressed by how much work Beckett put into organizing all of this.
He’s done so much work behind the scenes that I wasn’t even aware of until tonight. No wonder he’s always working on his laptop.
“Okay, spread out,” he says. “Four to a row, two on either side and leave three to four grapevines between you so you’re not tripping over each other.”
He asks if there are any questions and after answering a few, he points out the toilets and the refreshment area, and we get to work.
Beckett is right by my side as we work our way up the rows, clipping the grapes from the vines and tossing them into buckets at our feet.
Once my eyes adjust to the light, it doesn’t take long to find my rhythm.
It’s hard to believe that a little over two months ago, I had no idea how to do any of this and now it almost feels like second nature.
As soon as I fill my bucket, I empty it into a larger crate on the trailer behind the tractor and get back to work filling it again. Even though the adrenaline is running high, being out here, surrounded by nature, breathing in the fresh, clean night air brings me peace.
Until I look over at Beckett.
“This isn’t a competition,” I say, noting the way he’s picked up the pace, clipping grape clusters and dropping them into the bucket so fast his hands are a blur.
“Nobody said it was.” But I can tell by his smug smile that this is a competition, and he’s already declared himself the winner.
Not to be outdone, I start clipping and tossing as fast as I can.
“Watch what you’re doing, princess,” he says gruffly. “Stop looking over at me. You’ll lose a finger that way.”
“I can’t help myself. That headlamp is just so sexy.” It’s really not. Neither is the reflective vest that, according to Beckett, is mandatory for health and safety reasons. “It’s making me feel all kinds of ways.” I fan myself. “Whoa. Is it me or is it getting hot out here?”
“I bought extra batteries. We can see how it works under the covers.”
I laugh. But now I’m picturing Beckett showing up naked with a headlamp and I can’t stop laughing. “I’ll even draw you a treasure map.”
He snorts. “I don’t need a map. I had no trouble finding your G-spot.”
Yeah, he really didn’t. Before him, it was uncharted territory. “No need to gloat. It’s not like you summited Everest,” I scoff.
“Might as well have. I took you to new heights.”
Working the harvest, or the crush season, is everything Callie promised it would be.
Every day feels like a mini celebration. Like a dream I don’t want to wake up from.
After the grapes are transported to the winemaking facility, I sometimes join the team and help with punch downs or sorting through the grapes on the conveyor belt.
At the end of each day, when I drag my weary body back to the house, I feel happy and hopeful, like we’ve accomplished something truly incredible.
And every afternoon, Beckett and I take a siesta, languishing in bed with our limbs entwined and the shutters closed to ward off the afternoon sun.
Life is good. So good that I sometimes forget I’ll be leaving soon and that this isn’t my real life but just a pit stop along the way.
“These grapes won’t be ready to harvest for at least a few more weeks,” Beckett says, squeezing the juice of a cabernet sauvignon grape into the refractometer then holding it up to the light to check the sugar content.
“Probably not until mid-October,” he says, pocketing the handheld tool as we walk down the row with the afternoon sun beating down on us.
So far, September has been warm and dry, and still feels like summer.
Belatedly, Beckett’s words register, and I deflate. “But we won’t be here in October.”
I’ll be in Madrid and Barcelona and Paris. He’ll be back in San Francisco. And this vineyard will be under new ownership.
“Chin up, princess,” he says. “You’ll be on to better things. No more working through the night. No more dirt under your nails and scratches on your arms. No more living in a house without air conditioning.”
He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm as we walk through the open French doors and leave our work boots by the door.
I don’t mind the heat as much as Beckett does. With all the fans he bought, and the shutters closed, the house stays cool enough for me.
Yawning, I plod up the stairs. Every muscle in my body aches. Muscles I didn’t even know I had. “You should have had a swimming pool installed.”
“I’ll leave that to the next owner.” He stops outside the bathroom door and turns to me. “Can I tempt you with a cool shower?”
“That’s code for I want to fuck you against the tiled wall, isn’t it?”
With a grin, he grabs my hand and tugs me into the bathroom. “It’s almost like you know me.”
It’s almost like we’re in a real relationship.
After shower sex, we tumble into bed for our afternoon siesta. My skin is cool from the shower and with the fans blowing on me and Beckett’s arms wrapped around me, it’s utter bliss.
I’m so exhausted, I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
When I wake, there’s a glass of water on the bedside table, a text from Beckett telling me that he’s gone out to pick up Chinese food for dinner, and two missed calls from Anna.
I wander downstairs, phone in hand.
The air has cooled down since this afternoon and it’s the perfect temperature for al fresco dining, so after I’ve set the coffee table in anticipation of our late dinner, I drop onto the outdoor sofa and call Anna.
“He’s back,” Anna says in lieu of a greeting. “Now that he has the keys, he thinks he can treat your apartment like a hotel. Well, let me tell you, I’m going to give that boy a piece of my mind.”
I sigh. “Please don’t upset yourself over it. I’ll deal with it when I get home.”
“I need to look out for you,” she says. “Someone has to.”
I smile. “I can take care of myself. Don’t worry about me.”
“Well, I can’t help it. I have a feeling he’s up to no good.”
Chances are, she’s right. If Finn is back in Brooklyn, that means he hasn’t done anything to change his situation or mend the bridges he’s burned.
I’ve been brushing things under the carpet and making excuses for Finn for too long. That needs to stop. But that’s not a conversation we can have over the phone so it will have to wait until I’m back in New York, and we can talk face to face.
Yet another reason why I’m not so eager to leave.
After dinner, Beckett and I are lounging on the outdoor sofa. Our empty Chinese containers are strewn across the coffee table and I’m too full to move.
The sun is setting over the vineyard, bathing the world in brilliant oranges and pinks, and I can’t help but marvel at the view.
It’s one of those glorious sunsets that reminds you of how much beauty there is in this world. The kind of sunset that makes you feel grateful to be alive.
It’s so beautiful I want to weep.
Not only because of the sunset, but because our time together is running out.
We’ve reached a level of domesticity that’s become addictive.
We eat all our meals together, work together, share a home and a bed and a life .
We laugh together, tease each other, challenge each other.
We discuss books and movies and current events and with each new layer he reveals of himself, I fall a little harder.
I don’t care what our agreement was—what we have together goes beyond just sex. I’ve never had this kind of intimacy with anyone, not even with Finn. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to believe that when the three months are up we’ll be going our separate ways but apparently that’s still the plan.
“So what are you going to do after you leave here?” I ask, ignoring the way my stomach sinks at the mere mention of it. How am I going to give all of this up? How will I be able to walk away from him ? “Now that you’ve sold your company, what’s next?”
Beckett props his feet on the coffee table and laces his hands behind his head, his eyes on the view. “A new startup.”
I shift so my back is against the arm and bring my knees to my chest. “What kind of startup?”
“It’s still in the infancy stage. But rest assured that I’ll be using every dime from the sale of this vineyard.”
As if there was any doubt of that. Nothing has changed so I’m not sure why I’m disappointed that his plans and goals don’t include this vineyard. Or me.
“How about you?” he asks. “What’s next?”
Travel, travel, and more travel. “I’m doing photo shoots in Madrid and Barcelona and Paris in October, and when I get back, I have a solo exhibition in New York.”
“Yeah? What’s the theme?”
“It’s called God is a Woman . I did a series of portraits of older women. Marginalized women. Women living on the street or in homeless shelters. And women who have been incarcerated because of their beliefs. I’ve been working on it for five years.”
Beckett shakes his head. “You are a wonder, aren’t you?” His voice is soft and he’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before.
I reach for my glass of water on the table and take a sip to clear the lump in my throat. Compliments from Beckett always catch me off guard. They’re rare but all the more genuine for it and I’m never quite sure how to respond so I go with my default. “Not a wonder. Just a girl with a camera.”
“Don’t minimize it,” he says, wrapping his hand around the back of my calf and giving it a little squeeze.
“Fine. I’m a wonder,” I say with a smile.
“I’d like to see those photos.”
“You would?”
He nods. “Mmhmm. Maybe I’ll swing by New York and check them out.”
Hope stirs inside me and my heart beats a little faster. It’s the first time he’s ever alluded to the future. “I’d like that.”
“I’m not making any promises,” he says, backpedaling. “But it sounds interesting.”
And just like that, I deflate.
I have a bad feeling I’ll never see him again once this is over.
Our lives are so completely different that I can’t imagine our paths ever crossing. “It’s not until November. You’ll probably have forgotten all about me by then.”
“I’ll be reminded of you every time I get a stabbing pain in my eye,” he jokes.
I hold up an imaginary dart and throw it with a flick of my wrist. “Gotcha.”
He smiles, amused, but I can’t even muster a smile.
The correct answer would have been: You won’t be so easy to forget.
But I hide my disappointment by gathering up our empty containers and carrying them into the kitchen.
After refilling the pitcher with ice and water, I put Neil Young on the record player and return to the terrace.
Beckett is scrolling on his phone, so I set the pitcher on the table and return to my seat. Leaning my head against the back of the sofa, I let my thoughts drift.
The first time I ever met Beckett, I was six and he was eleven.
I ran down to the creek but just before I reached it I saw a boy up ahead and hid behind a tree to watch him.
His hair went every which way and he still had a skinny boy’s body. Long, coltish legs and thin arms.
He was picking blackberries from the bushes. I only saw him eat one berry out of the whole bunch and the rest were dutifully added to the bucket.
“Hi. I’m Daisy,” I said when I finally gathered the nerve to reveal myself.
“I know. You live here now, right?” I nodded. “I’m Beck.”
“What are you doing?”
“Picking blackberries. My mom loves them. Last week I picked some for her and they cheered her up.”
“Oh.” I peered into the bucket. “Are they magic blackberries?”
He smiled. “Yeah. They’re magic blackberries, princess. You wanna try one?” He held one out to me on his palm like a gift. “It might give you magic powers.”
I licked my lips. I wanted that plump, juicy blackberry more than anything but I clasped my hands behind my back and shook my head. “They’re for your mom.”
“It’s okay. She won’t mind sharing.” He handed me the blackberry and I squeezed it so tightly in my fist that the juice dribbled down my arm.
“I can tell you a story about the magic blackberries and the fairies who pick them and the wicked queen who keeps the fairies locked in a golden cage,” I said, my mind running wild with possibilities as I spun a tale in my head.
Even at a young age, I knew that every gift commanded a price. In my world, nothing was given freely. “I’m a good storyteller. Maybe your mom will like this story too.”
He grinned. “This sounds like a story I don’t wanna miss. I’ll tell you what. Eat some blackberries and you can tell me the story while you help me pick the rest.”
How funny that he’s always called me princess, even when I was just a little girl.
And even back then, he was trying to brighten his mom’s day.
“Are you plotting ways to murder me in my sleep?” Beckett asks, refilling his water glass from the pitcher and guzzling half of it.
“I don’t have that kind of patience. I’m just waiting for the arsenic to enter your blood system.” I eye the glass of water in his hand. “Drink up.”
He laughs. “Where do you go? When you drift off like that?”
“Wouldn’t you just love to know?” I’ve always been a daydreamer. Sometimes I just zone out and forget where I am.
And sometimes I trip down memory lane, revisiting little vignettes from my past that I thought were long forgotten.
“They’re playing our song,” I say when “Harvest Moon” comes on. “If you ask me to dance, I’ll say yes. I’m a sure bet.”
He closes one eye and tilts his head. “Are you?”
“For the next two weeks, I’m all yours.”
“And you want to dance.”
“I really want to dance.”
He exhales loudly and gets to his feet, offering me his hand. “The things I do for you.”
He pulls me into his arms, and we dance on the terrace as the last of the sun dips into the horizon on a warm September night during the harvest season.
For someone who doesn’t date or do relationships, Beckett has all the right moves.
That wave of longing I felt on the car ride to Petaluma last month washes over me again but this time it’s stronger. It hits me with the force of a tsunami.
I stumble and he catches me, pulling me closer so my body is flush against his and my breasts are pressing against his hard chest.
“I never knew you could be so romantic,” I say, peeking up at him. In the near darkness his cheekbones look razor-sharp and his blue eyes gleam. “Too bad you’re so opposed to the idea of a committed relationship. With a little bit of work, you could be the ideal boyfriend.” I give him a coy smile.
“Don’t get any ideas,” he warns. “I’m completely lacking in the romance department. A wholly unsuitable partner for you.”
And yet, we’re slow dancing to Neil Young. “I didn’t say you’d be the ideal boyfriend for me .”
“You didn’t have to say it. I can read you like a book.”
He really can’t. He just likes to think he can. “Oh yeah?” I tip back my head and look him in the eye. “What am I thinking right now?”
Beckett’s lips brush the line of my jaw and his mouth moves close to the shell of my ear. “You’re thinking about my big dick and how much you wish it was inside you.”
“I think you’re confusing my thoughts with yours.” I pull back and arch my brows. “I was thinking that you are a big dick. Subtle word change. Big difference.”
He smirks. “All I heard were the words big and dick.” Without warning, he dips me so low the ends of my hair brush the floor and I whoop out a laugh as he pulls me back up and into his arms.
With a smile, he spins me out and reels me back in and everything about this dance and this moment is so perfect that I want to store it in my memory bank for rainy days.
I’m going to miss you so much when this is over.
There will be no one to come home to at the end of the day.
No slow dancing to Neil Young or watching the sunset from the terrace.
No grapes to harvest.
No afternoon siestas.
No Beckett.
But we still have a couple of weeks left so I’m making it my mission to prove to him that life on this vineyard can make him happier than the life he was living before.
This is where he belongs. With dirt on his boots and the sun on his face.
And I can’t help dreaming about the life we could have if he chose to keep the vineyard.
If he chose to keep us .