Chapter 20
Twenty
Parkinson’s law says, among other things, that work expands to the time allowed. Applying the concept to Glass of Vine, it means I can either take the entire time I’m here to get it open, or I give myself a deadline: I choose two weeks.
The Nickelses’ original plan was to have a fully functioning winery with production of the grapes occurring on property, but that’s a long game. I need to get people in the door and buying wine ASAP.
Which requires Banyan.
A hippie.
Who is currently wearing an unbuttoned white linen shirt, a red bandana around his head topped with a pair of corded headphones that lead into a pocket of flowy pants covered in some kind of elephant print, and no shoes.
As he prunes a vine, he hums along to the music in his ears—it might be Marvin Gaye—oblivious to my presence.
“Hello,” I say to his back. When he doesn’t answer, I tap his shoulder, shouting, “Hello!”
He jumps, spins to face me, and puts a hand to his bare chest. “Wake me up, baby, here I am.” Even though his eyes are wide and verbiage ridiculous, he’s not mad. If anything, there’s a casual drag to his nasally voice. Like he has a head cold he medicates with marijuana.
He pulls his headphones off and knocks his sternum. “Bout stopped the ticker cold.” His gaze travels the length of me then his chin jerks back. “Yikes!”
I frown, looking down at my body. I’m at work and I look like I’m at work: black pencil skirt, black blouse, black pumps. I smooth my skirt and return my gaze to his.
“I’m Reese.” I do not offer him my hand. “I’m here to learn about the vineyard.”
He pulls a Walkman out of his pant leg and pushes a button to stop a tape. A cassette tape. Because that’s how a man named Banyan listens to music.
He gestures at me with the Walkman. “Vines love sexy music.”
“They tell you that?”
“Ha!” His bright eyes dance. “They did. See these?” He points at a cluster of grapes with his shears. “Physical manifestation of my own sexual energy.”
I blow out a breath. “So you and the vines mate?”
“Nice thought.” The sicko chuckles. “Wouldn’t that be something? The vines and I have a relationship,” he says, snipping a leaf. “I play music for them—sometimes I bring the ocarina out—and they grow for me. Like making love with your soulmate, know what I’m saying?”
I look at the vine, half expecting to see a vagina sprouting. “No.”
He makes an O with his mouth, sticks his tongue out, and starts flicking it back and forth as he hums.
“Stop that,” I snap. “What is that?”
“Tongue singing.” He grins. “Try it.”
He continues tongue singing, disturbing the hell out of me.
“Stop,” I demand. “None of that.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He offers me his hand. “I’m Banyan, by the way.”
Reluctantly, I take it. “Reese.”
“Banyan Shanti Errosen.” We’re still shaking hands. “Most people call me Banyan.” Still shaking. “Whatever speaks to you though.”
“Banyan works.” I pry my hand from his. “Quite a name.”
“Strength, peace, love.” He twirls a hand through the air. “Name says it all.” He snaps four times then points a finger at me before saying in a breathy, dramatic tone, “Fiery.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what Reese means.”
Okay.
“Nancy and Gavin told me you take care of the vines,” I redirect. “I want to spend the next two weeks with you to learn what you do, why you do it, and decide if you’re safe to expose to guests.”
“Hold it,” he says, gesticulating his hands as he speaks. “Step back, stop, and rewind, little lady. Banyan picked up on a tune he wants to sing from the rooftops.”
“Safety of exposure?”
He shakes his head, motioning for me to keep going.
“Two weeks?”
More head shaking and motioning.
I huff out an annoyed breath. “Nancy and Gavin sai—”
“Yep.” He claps. “That’s what I’m talking about. Gavin. White hawk. The Heater. My man.”
I hold up my hands and look around. “What about him?”
He pockets his shears, making the flimsy fabric of his pants sag slightly, then presses all his fingers to his mouth. All ten fingers. He pulls them away, draws in a breath like he’s going to speak only to put the fingers back to his mouth. He does this again. Twice. “Uh-huh.”
Never have two syllables made me so uncomfortable.
“Explain,” I demand.
“For starters. There’s no reaching full potential when you live life so”—he gestures to the length of me—“restricted.”
I do not scream like I long to do. “I mean explain what you’re doing to the vines.”
After a lingering look, he retrieves the shears from his pocket and returns his focus to the vine, doing more touching than pruning.
“Canopy management,” he explains in my silence. “Just makin’ sure these fine grapes get enough sun and air, little lady.”
“Don’t call me little lady,” I tell him. “And explain more.”
“Ehh.” His face scrunches as he looks at me, focus lingering on my feet. “No can do.”
“What?” I pin him with a look that I hope translates to who the hell do you think you’re dealing with?
His shrug tells me it did not. “The clothes. The shoes.” He squints. “Do you meditate?”
I scoff, swatting gnats out of my eyes. “Do you bathe?”
He laughs. “You’re funny.” He doesn’t react to my withering glare. “But this is a reciprocal relationship. Symbiotic. The ladies feed off the energy and your energy is—” He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Wowza.”
“Because I’m not here on work order?”
“More jokes.” He wags his shears at me. “But if you want to work with the vines, your stress will stress them. You have to be—” He slides a cool hand through the air. “Chill.”
“Chill?”
He nods, repeating the hand motion.
And herein lies my issue with hippies: They’re idealist pains in the ass with zero regard for efficiency.
I can’t get rid of him—I told Nancy he could at least stay through the season after she insisted that he’s some kind of grape whisperer.
But also, every study on fertility I’ve read says I should be relaxing and managing stress.
I’ve made zero headway on that as everyone in this town is gunning for me to have a nervous breakdown.
And vetting my donors might be adding to my stress.
The one I researched this morning works for a nonprofit—noble—until I found his list of hobbies includes protesting big businesses.
I might as well procreate with the antichrist. He’s off the list, meaning I’m down to the slow-emailing, online-dating doctor and five others, and Gavin still lives next door to my mother spewing perfect lines that now live in my brain rent free.
Maybe Banyan’s chill would be good for me.
“And how do you propose I do that?”
“Lose the shoes, for starters,” he says. “Direct connection to the earth’s surface will fill you with free electrons and balance you out. Those toe coffins are damming the energy and harshing your harmony.” He shakes his head, solemn as he whispers, “The grapes know.”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. This idiot wants me to walk around barefoot.
At work.
Outside.
“I’ll take my shoes off if you button your shirt.”
He cocks his head and smiles like that was clever before buttoning the single button at the collar of the shirt. The fabric splays open and only accentuates his bare chest and belly instead of hiding it. He looks like a roofied Amish man.
I could argue, but I know it won’t get me anywhere. And maybe one button is a start.
I kick my Louboutins off and put my feet in the thick grass, blades poking the soles and the space between every toe. “Harmonious enough?”
“That’s between you and the vines, little lady.”
Then, true to his word and with us sans shoes, Banyan leads me down the first row of vines, explaining as he works.
He removes some leaves and not others to prevent fungal disease. He snips shoots without fruit to redirect the energy. He lightens the vine’s load by getting rid of under-ripened or excessive bunches of fruit. Despite the overuse of sex analogies, he knows the grapes.
“Pruning is the foreplay.” He winks then swirls his hips. “Harvest is the big finish.”
We stop at the end of a row. “Are you dangerous?”
“Banyan a danger?” He laughs. “I’m a vegetarian. Buddhist. I live with the sole mission to do no harm.”
“Psychos can be vegetarian Buddhists,” I shoot back. “Can I trust you around people?”
“You’re kind of . . .” He rubs his crooked nose. “Intense. Like a—” He bares his teeth. “Beast in a cage.”
This man is worse than Sylvia.
“Answer the question.”
“Is this about the misunderstanding?”
“The arrest?”
“I was nude in my backyard,” he says.
“So?”
He waves his hands like white flags. “So I’m not dangerous. I’m a lover.”
That might be worse. That might be a PR nightmare. Or a lawsuit. “Why were you nude?”
“Air bath,” he explains. “Fresh air on the naked body refreshes the soul. Stimulates circulation.” He points the shears at me. “Ben Franklin did it.”
I don’t give a rat’s ass about Ben Franklin.
“How can you get arrested for being nude in your backyard?”
“Oh.” He drops his head back with a laugh. Far from loud, it matches his laid-back tone. “I lived in a van by the river. Private dwellings on public land is a grey area. This whole concept of land ownership.” His weird face contorts into a can you imagine? face. “Cops don’t get it.”
I saw my teeth across my bottom lip. He has a strand of colorful yarn tied around his neck—I’m sure that means something I don’t care about—but he knows his shit when it comes to the grapes.
“Where do you live now?”
He hooks a thumb over his shoulder toward Gavin’s shop. “Gav lets me park by the shop. Put a full hookup station in for me.”
Of course he did. Of course Gavin couldn’t finish the place for himself but made space for this lunatic.
“Does he charge you?”
He scoffs. “The Heater?”
Whatever that means.
“Do you work?”
“I’m here.”
“For money?”
“I’m subsidized.”
I’m not touching that one.
“What’s your job?” he asks. “Let me guess.” He looks me up and down. “Air traffic controller?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You seem like you’d get off on controlling planes.”
“I’m in private equity,” I retort. “I control businesses.”
“Ahh.” He raises his hands like there ya go. “I spent time in a matrilineal commune once. You would fit right in with those women. I bet you’re a Republican.”
I am not talking politics with this lunatic. “Can you keep your dick in your pants if we bring people out here?”
His hands go to his hips, shears dangling, lips pursed. “Do you have sex?”
My chin jerks back. “That’s none of your goddamn business.”
“Shhh!” His eyes widen. “The vines.” He gestures at said vines. “Getting laid might help with your dis-ease.” He bounces on his toes, arms moving like gummy worms. “Loosen up.”
“I don’t have dis-ease,” I bite out. “Or plan on ever talking about sex with you.”
“Just saying, if too many thoughts are holding you back, talking could help.”
“Who the hell are you having sex with to make you such an expert?” I can’t imagine such a woman—or man—exists.
“See—” A creepy little smile lifts his lips.
“I knew you wanted to talk about this. I get the ladies because the ladies sense what I’m capable of.
You feel it.” He pauses, closes his eyes, and takes a long sniff.
“Smell the pheromones.” He sniffs again, wafting the air around him.
“Do it with me, Fire Lady.” More wafting. “Smell me.”
“No.”
“Smell me.”
“No.”
“Your loss.” He sighs. “But I’m from a long line of sacred sexuality practitioners and fancy myself a surrogate partner. I can help.”
Again: “No.”
He waggles a finger. “I see you thinking about it.”
I’ve caught a parasite from walking around barefooted, because I am thinking about it. Not with him, just in general.
In my normal life, which, at this point, might be similar to how Dorothy thought of Kansas when she was lost in Oz—some faraway land I’ll never get back to—I didn’t have much time for sex.
I worked, slept as little as possible in order to function, and worked some more.
Sex wasn’t on my radar unless the stars aligned to create enough free time for me to end up in a bar where someone had the same carnal need as me.
But now, here, with nothing but time and Gavin being all young and rugged and what some might call sexy, I have time to think of it.
Especially when he’s telling me he can’t stop thinking about me and I’m wondering what it might be like to have sex with someone and a connection.
Enough of a connection I’d talk to them the next day.
And the next. They’d know my coffee order, and I’d know how they like their eggs.
When Banyan says, “Is this about Gavin?” I wonder if he’s a mind reader.
My next “No” comes out like a bark.
“I’ll note your denial in your chart,” he says. “Look at the vines.”
With a heavy sigh, I do, acres and acres of them bright green under the clear blue sky.
It’s warm out, but the few dots of yellow winking from the trees around us mean fall isn’t so far away.
Cicadas saw a song through the calm, and the air sighs a breeze strong enough it blows my hair and makes the leaves rustle.
Banyan says, “If I didn’t prune the ladies, they’d be weak. Energy needs to be guarded. Harnessed. Focused.” He points his shears at me. “Same goes for people. Trying to keep everything, kills everything.”
It’s the first thing he’s said that almost resonates with me.
We’re quiet a beat, both looking out at the vines until he says, “Hard to believe Banyan bringing the sex did all this,” and ruins the moment.
He’s completely inappropriate, but a laugh puffs out of me.
“I want you to lead tours,” I tell him. I don’t believe half the bullshit he says, but tourists will love it, and he knows enough about the wine and grapes he’ll be able to sell bottles.
“Teach people about the vines as they drink wine. We need to work on your presentation.”
He shimmies his hips. “Tell daddy what you like, Fire Lady.”
“Don’t say daddy,” I tell him. “And I’d like it if you didn’t come across as a skeezy pervert who gets his grapes off on the actual grapes.” I eye his bare belly. “You’ll need to fully button your shirt.” At his bare feet: “And wear shoes.”
“I’ll bend if you bend.”
“My shoes are off,” I remind him, wiggling my toes. I’ll die before I tell him how good the grass feels under my feet. “That’s all you’re getting from me today. Now take me down the next row and explain everything the way you just did but without the sexmentary.”
“Sexmentary.” He points the shears at me. “Funny girl. We can work with this.”
He doesn’t do much better on the next two rows, but by the end of the morning, he’s almost bearable.