40. Mackenzie
Mackenzie
It’s a perfect autumn Saturday.
There’s no chance of enjoying it, though.
Environment Canada posted a hard frost forecast for tonight so we are picking like mad.
Every muscle I possess is aching after four weeks of harvest, but it’s not done yet.
The smell of crushed grapes is pervasive and welcome, but the cool nip in the morning air is motivating.
This is the time of year that we all pull together at the vineyard, when pretty much everybody comes out to help pick so that we can get done in time.
We start before dawn and we pick into the evening.
You’re supposed to pick in the mornings, only, but we left the crop on the vine later to increase those sugars and now it’s a race against the frost. Mrs. O’Neill makes us soup and sandwiches twice a day, with Opa driving the truck out from the house to deliver the buffet wherever we are.
We eat quickly and get right back to work.
This week, we’ve hung tarps over the highest part of the vineyards, to protect the fruit from the possibility of frost. We’ve mounted lights on the tractors and are using them to illuminate the fields while we pick later into the evening.
This year, it will be a little closer than usual.
I got that week of sun, but later than I’d hoped.
The grapes are perfect, heavy and sweet, but the weather might turn before we can get them all harvested.
I gambled and I really hope I don’t lose – even though Opa says even mistakes teach us something.
Worse, it’s almost exactly a month since I saw Jake at the café.
I’ve heard nothing about mountains moving or changes in the wind.
I’ve heard nothing from him. The only glimpse I had of Jake was at Mike and Sylvia’s wedding the weekend before, but I was only able to attend the ceremony.
Grapes were calling my name. I didn’t speak to him then.
I’m not even sure he knew I was there. He was Mike’s best man and had things to do.
I haven’t spotted him in town or even heard a rumor of his presence, and if it hadn’t been for him being alive and well (and gorgeous) at the wedding, I’d think he was a figment of my imagination.
What am I going to do if he doesn’t turn up by tomorrow?
I’ll call him. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll call him and ask. But I will give him through midnight tomorrow, even if it kills me.
It might.
If the grape harvest doesn’t get me first.
I’m walking out to the fields early Saturday morning when my phone rings. The caller display says it’s Jake. I answer, keeping my tone crisp and professional, even though my heart is leaping around like an Olympics gymnast.
“What are you doing?” he asks, sounding jubilant.
“Picking grapes, of course.”
“Can you take a day off?”
“Who are you and what have you done to my favourite workaholic?”
“Your favourite?” he echoes, so gleeful that I smile. “Still?”
“Yes, still. Even though you’ve been AWOL and it’s annoying as hell.”
“I had to make a plan, Mackenzie. I did give you a timeline.”
“I hope it was worth it.”
“Me, too.” He takes a breath and his voice drops low. “I had to be sure I won’t be fucking up your life. You can’t blame me for that.”
I can’t. “Are you?”
He chuckles. “Would I be calling you if I was planning to do that?”
“No. What’s the plan?”
“No cheating or looking ahead at the end of the book. Are you one of those people who reads the last chapter first?”
“No, but you must have called for a reason.”
“I did. I told you.”
“You told me your mountain would be moved in thirty days.”
“And so it is. Therefore, I am calling you, right on time. One day early. One day and a half, actually.”
“You’re not going to tell me how many hours and minutes?” I have to tease him a little.
“It was an imprecise deadline. Let’s call it a day and a half.”
“And you’ve called now to convince me to ditch work today?”
“That’s it exactly. Carpe diem and all that.” Jake laughs.
“Are you drunk?”
“No. Stone cold sober. But happy, which is sufficiently strange and unusual that it might be easily confused with the latter.”
I feel my eyes narrow. “Is this really Jake Cavendish?”
“It is. Day off or no?”
“I can’t. There’s a hard frost forecast and I gambled on having a little more time to pick…”
“And you might not get the whole harvest in,” he says, finishing my sentence with the understanding of someone who also grew up on a farm.
“It’s so close and Opa made an exception for my plan and, oh, I really don’t want it to fail. Can you stop a hard frost?”
“No, I have no expertise with that particular kind of mountain. What if I come help pick today?”
“Where are you?”
“At the end of your driveway.”
“You are not!” My heart leaps and does a little somersault in the air before nailing the landing perfectly.
“I am. And I have to think that picking grapes is not very different from picking tomatoes.”
“It’s probably not.”
“I was the fastest picker in the greenhouse, and I’m motivated. What do you say?”
I still can’t believe he’s serious. “You would pick for me today?”
“That’s the deal.”
“What’s this going to cost me?”
Jake laughs again. “Maybe your future.” He sobers. “Seriously, I work for beer. I probably wouldn’t be averse to a massage tonight either.”
I smile, because I can’t help it. “Cheap date. You’re on.
” I wait for him to hoot in triumph. “And you’re late, Cavendish.
We’ve started picking.” I end the call and pull on my gloves as I join the crew, who are already working.
I hear footsteps closing and turn to see Jake striding down between the rows of vines with purpose, his eyes gleaming.
He grins at me, then catches me close and swings me around, taking time for a possessive kiss that almost makes me forget my name.
The guys whistle and we break apart, me blushing and Jake grinning.
“Miss me?” he murmurs in a dangerous whisper.
“Not at work,” I murmur and he steps away, eyes still glimmering. He brushes his lips across my temple as if he can’t resist me. I want to drag him behind the next row of vines and have my way with him, but need to follow my own rules.
“Got it, boss lady.” Jake scans the rows of vines, seeing how we’ve marked the ones that have been picked, then assesses the team. “This is it?”
“Bad, bad luck this month.” I’m picking as I talk.
“I have two out with sprains, one ankle and one wrist; I have at least four down with a nasty virus, I have…” I’m still counting out missing crew but Jake is on his phone.
Before I can finish my list of woes, he’s got Mike and Sierra coming to help, as well as Madison and Luke.
“How do you do that?” I ask and he grins.
“Once you start moving mountains, it just gets easier. Now, show me this grape thing.”
I beckon to Sloane who brings Jake shears and gloves. He demonstrates how to clip and drop.
“Just like tomatoes,” Jake says.
“Not quite,” Sloane says. “These are all going to be crushed today, so you don’t have to worry about bruising. Just get them off the vine and into the crate ASAP.”
Jake gets right in there and he is fast. And that’s good, because my phone chimes with a weather alert. There’s now a chance of thunderstorms late in the afternoon with hail.
“Chance of hail!” I shout and there’s a cry from the team. We have a lot of grapes to pick first and we all know it. Everyone starts working faster, and we’re making great progress even before Mike and the other Cavendishes come down the rows to help.
This just might work.
We finish at nine, under the lights from the tractor and there’s a roar of relief when the last row is completed.
We did get some rain, not enough to slow us down, but no hail.
The grapes are still being hauled into the warehouse to be weighed and crushed.
My uncle Franz is in charge of this part, and he’s bustling around, in his element.
The rest of us make our tired way back to the house, where there’s a fire blazing on the patio and the grills are lit. Opa is there to welcome each of us with a hug and a word of praise, though I get a kiss on my cheek as well. I’d be exhausted if I wasn’t so aware of Jake’s presence.
The food, as always, is abundant and delicious.
There are burgers and schnitzels and sausages, sauerkraut and crusty buns, two kinds of homemade soup and a spicy chili.
There are huge bowls of salads: Caesar, warm potato salad, cole slaw and beet salad, as well as an array of Mrs. O’Neill’s homemade relishes and dill pickles.
There’s a keg of beer already open, iced tea, lemonade and wine, of course, from our own stores.
We have workers from Jamaica this year, so there’s jerk chicken with rice and peas.
I have no idea where Mrs. O’Neill got plantain to fry but it’s fabulous and disappears fast. There are bottles of Red Stripe beer on ice, too.
Opa is the delighted host, making sure everyone digs in, while my uncle Victor keeps the beer flowing.
There are lights strung over the patio and some music playing, but mostly we talk and laugh together.
Mrs. O’Neill has outdone herself with cakes and pies, filling an entire table with them once we’ve devoured the mains, and the big urn of coffee soon needs to be refilled.
I just sit, so relieved that the grapes are all in, waiting on Uncle Franz to bring the news. I can’t read his expression when he strides toward Opa, but Opa grins from ear to ear when Franz whispers the yield to him.