Chapter 5 #2
At the end of the lane, I turn left, again praying for no cars, but reminding myself they do seem rare here and that it’s not called Lost Valley for nothin’.
I cross a bridge located beyond one end of the lake over a runoff stream and soon come upon a big wood-and-stone sign that welcomes me to Lost Valley Vineyards.
In smaller print, it informs me that the tasting room is open Wednesday through Sunday from one to five, but hopefully that means no one is here to mind me investigating their “big mimosa.”
The barnlike building I saw from Mabel’s backyard is located up a long gravel drive, more challenging for walking than the road was.
And now I’m back out in the bright sun, getting hot despite the early hour.
But I’m on a mission, so it’s okay, and the place indeed seems quiet and empty as I approach.
I make my way straight to the tree, situated on the hillside below the winery and grapevines, to find it’s truly enormous. This has got to be Mabel’s special tree.
After walking to the large twisty trunk, I take twenty steps in the right direction.
Then I look to my left, hoping against hope to see something besides the wide-open meadow all around it.
And ... nothing. Nothing at all. Just field.
Recently mown, no chickens, one-eyed or otherwise.
I stand and look for a long time anyway, though, just to make sure.
Because if this isn’t the right tree, I’m at a dead end as absolute as the one outside Mabel’s house.
“Excuse me—can I help you?”
Oh crap. I turn to see a woman with striking silver hair hanging long and wavy nearly to her waist. She’s wearing hippie sunglasses, Birkenstocks, and a long, flowered sleeveless dress. A black-and-white collie mix trots along behind her.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to trespass. I’m staying at the house across the lake this summer and wanted a closer look at your mimosa tree.” I point toward the cottage.
“Mabel’s place?” she asks, her countenance lightening.
I nod. “I’m a friend of the family,” I explain. “I thought no one was here—I apologize for coming onto the property anyway—I like to take walks and was lured by the tree.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says easily, and I can already tell we’re friends.
“If we ever want to keep people out that badly, we’ll put up a gate.
And we’re almost always here—we live up above the tasting room.
” Now it’s her pointing, to the second floor of the barn, and I’m instantly intrigued.
I’m not sure who I expected to be running the place, but it wasn’t her.
“Feel free to take your walks here—we don’t mind. ”
“Are you sure?” I ask from beneath the wide brim of my hat.
“Absolutely. I’m Joanna, by the way. But call me Jo. My husband, Conrad, is working in the vines on the other side of the barn. And this is Socks.” She motions down to the happy-looking dog at her side.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Jessica. Jessica Fox.” WRTB 11. That last part of the introduction, however, echoing in my brain from pure habit, feels less like who I am in this moment than ever before.
“Come up to the barn with me,” she says with a welcoming smile, and we start toward it.
When we arrive, she motions to one of several round wrought-iron tables with chairs dotting a shaded area near the front door and asks, “Wine? Water? Soda?”
“I’d love to try the wine another time,” I tell her, “but I’m good for now, thanks.” I hold up my water bottle.
“Well, I’m going to grab a soda for myself, so I’ll be right back.” The dog shadows her movements, step for step, and after she returns with a drink, joining me at a table, she asks, “So what brings you to Lost and Found, Jessica Fox?”
I actually enjoy how direct she is—I can tell she already likes me and wants to know my story.
And whereas I would perhaps skirt the facts with most strangers, something about this one draws out blunt, to-the-point honesty.
“I just finished treatment for breast cancer,” I tell her.
“Hence my lack of hair. I’m cancer-free now, which is, of course, a huge relief.
But I’m a news anchor in Cincinnati, and I’ve kind of been .
.. sent away for the summer while someone younger and prettier delivers the news.
Someone who has hair. She’s who I used to be. ”
“Wow,” she says. At first, I think it means I misread her vibe and dropped too much on her too fast, but I know it’s okay when she adds, “That’s reprehensible. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks,” I reply. And that quickly, I understand why I shared.
Because I can tell she’s strong like I am.
Stronger, in fact. She won’t baby me—she’ll treat me with reverence and respect.
It’s like I felt discovering Mabel, like we might be kindred spirits.
I’m not sure being kindred spirits means you have everything in common—only that you get each other.
I even confide a little more then, explaining the wig-flipping dress rehearsal, which I maintain was much more about a physical reaction than a mental one, but that regardless, the whole situation makes me feel old and unattractive and unworthy.
Like I suddenly don’t matter. I tell her how I expected to be welcomed back with open arms, the triumphant cancer survivor, and instead was told to take the summer off because Tiffany tested well with focus groups.
“You know you’re more than your job,” she says.
And I answer, “Of course.” But do I? I mean, without it, who would I be? I’ve never even thought about having to figure that out.
Kevin said it’s just for the summer, though, so hopefully there’s nothing to figure out.
“My boss tells me it’ll be fine,” I explain, “but even so, this is ... an eye-opening experience, to say the least.” Ageism.
Beautyism. Things you don’t think you’ll ever have to deal with—until suddenly you do.
“Well, I’m sorry you’re here under such lousy circumstances, but I hope you can enjoy your time in our little hamlet.”
Little hamlet? Who is she trying to convince, me or herself? I reply with, “I get the feeling you’re not from around here, either.”
She lets out a laugh. “The mountains of Kentucky would go right at the top of the list of places I never thought I’d end up. But here I am.”
I tilt my head slightly, sun hat and all. “I’m waiting for the why and the how.”
When a small smile turns up the corners of her mouth, my eyes are drawn to the fine lines there, to the messy waves in her long hair.
I wish I could see her eyes behind the sunglasses.
She points in the general direction of where she told me her husband is working.
“It’s all for that man.” Though she says it lovingly.
I wait for more.
“I grew up in California, near San Fran, and Conrad is from Seattle. We lived in LA for a while, and then Vegas. He was in the corporate world—of windowpanes. That’s what he devoted his life to—windows.
He started in IT, ended up in management, and he was well rewarded for his work.
I managed a kennel in LA, and ran a funky little flower shop in Las Vegas.
And then one day he told me he wanted to retire and build a winery in the country somewhere.
Just wanted to start the whole thing up from scratch. ”
“Was he a wine expert?” I ask.
“Not then, no. Now he’s becoming one. He just felt this passion to pursue a quiet life among the mountains and vines, to do something entirely different and get away from it all.”
“Well, if he wanted to get away from it all, he came to the right place.”
She laughs once more. “And I was happy to follow. Happy to let him follow his bliss.”
“Are you happy here?” It’s too personal—I regret it the second I ask.
But she seems not to notice. “What’s not to be happy about?” she asks in an easy-come-easy-go way. “Fresh air, beautiful scenery, and all the wine I can drink.” She adds a wink with that last bit.
“You don’t mind the, uh, isolation? The lack of ...”
“Everything?” she asks with a knowing smile.
“Sure, I did at first. But I just replaced one thing with another. Streaming TV and movies with reading books. Social media with getting to know people when they come in, and running the tasting room. Restaurants with cooking. Running around town with tending to grapevines. It’s just a matter of retraining your brain, letting it get back to basics. ”
“You’re a stronger woman than me,” I confess, my earlier thought officially verified. “But I admire your attitude.” Even if I don’t quite understand it. I guess it’s a testament to her love for her man.
She confirms that, saying, “Conrad worked hard for so many years. And, well, he still works hard now, but in a very different way. It feeds his soul. It took a while to get used to Lost and Found, but there’s so much peace here.
I’ve come to value that more than I ever expected when this little adventure started. ”
“Can I ask you something else that’s none of my business?”
“I’m an open book,” she says, and I admire that about her, too.
“Do you, um, get enough customers out here to make it worth your while?”
Another small smile graces her face. “Well, people don’t just stumble across us—it’s named Lost Valley for a reason.
You have to be even more lost to get here than you do to reach Lost and Found.
But we do have a website—that we maintain from the Brandywine Library—and we’re in winery guides for people who seek out vineyards for day trips and travel, and we’re fortunate to have placement in wine shops in Knoxville, Lexington, and Louisville. It’s enough to keep us afloat.”
Before I leave, I insist on buying a bottle of wine—then realize I have no form of payment on me because while my phone is with me in order to count my steps, it no longer works to pay for things, either.
Jo makes me take the bottle anyway, telling me it’s a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift.
I argue, “I’m definitely paying for it on my next visit,” and we bicker good-naturedly about it until I finally set off back to Mabel’s.
So in my attempt to support the business, I instead abscond with a free bottle of wine.
Still, as I make the return journey, I feel better than when I arrived.
I liked Jo and felt welcomed by her. I think about the kind of love that’s truly happy to put the other person first. And I remain inexplicably taken by her appearance—she makes aging look good.
She’s clearly a woman of her own, a woman who grows where she’s planted, a woman who probably wouldn’t give a damn if she lost her hair—even though it’s as long and striking as mine once was.
I think I might want to be her when I grow up.