Here With Me (10 page)

Louis propped a foot on the barrel. “Thank
goodness it wasn’t a full one. Could have been a waste of a
promising Cabernet.”

“You stupid idiot,” Bernard said, evidently
deciding to ignore Melody’s warning look. “That barrel almost hit
your niece. And would have, too, if George here hadn’t pulled her
out of the way.”

Louis had the decency to look shocked. “I had
no idea,” he said. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt, Melody.”

Tilly took a step closer, her eyes bright
with speculation. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Melody said. “Nothing happened. It
was a stupid accident and we all need to forget about it.”

No one said a word. Finally, Louis smiled,
showing all his teeth. “Fine. I got an e-mail from Marty. Orders
are pouring in for the 2004 Chardonnay. He wants another forty
cases.”

Bernard ran a hand over his face. “The next
time that damn woman writes a cookbook, I hope she’ll let us know
in advance that she plans to put our bottle on the cover.”

“What woman?” Melody asked.

“Rebecca Fields,” Louis answered. “She has
the hottest cooking show on cable right now and her book is flying
off the shelves.”

Show on cable
? George tried to
remember if Sarah had mentioned anything about cables.

“And she likes our wine?” Melody asked. Her
eyes, bright with excitement, looked more purple than before.
“That’s wonderful.”

“I was already busier than a one-armed paper
hanger,” Bernard complained. “Now I got every Rebecca Fields
wanna-be calling me at all hours of the day.”

George saw past the man’s words, straight
into his proud soul. This woman, this Rebecca Fields who had
written a cookbook, had somehow given him recognition that he
publicly disdained but there was little doubt that he privately
enjoyed.

“All I know is the price of that wine just
went up 20 percent,” Uncle Louis said. “Oh, by the way, she’s
coming to dinner tonight.”

“Who?” Melody asked.

“Rebecca Fields. Your grandmother has been
wanting to meet her and she was free tonight.”

Tilly rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what the
big deal is.”

George saw the quick flare of anger in
Louis’s eyes. But when he spoke, the man’s voice was calm enough.
“The big deal is that she’s helping to put Sweet Song of Summer
wines on the map. We need that, Tilly.”

She stared coldly at her husband. “I know
what we need.” She turned and walked out the door. Louis hesitated
for just a second before he followed her out.

They were barely out of the door before
Bernard took off his straw hat and swatted it across his pant leg.
“I’m sorry, Melody. But I just can’t stand that
son-of-a-bitch.”

She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek.
“Don’t worry about it. Look, I’m going to go check on
Grandmother.”

George walked by her side, keeping a watchful
eye on the barrels. When they reached the door, Melody was silent
for another hundred yards as they crossed what looked to be a
freshly mowed yard.

There was just enough wind that wisps of her
hair blew gently around her face. In the wine shed, he’d held her
close enough that he knew that her hair smelled like strawberries.
It was the smell of his boyhood, a smell of pleasure. Strawberries
had grown in the patch behind his mother’s house. They’d been sweet
and pure and damn tempting.

Just like she was.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, looking
at him.

There were times when the truth just wasn’t
the right thing. “That you were lucky,” he said.

She put a hand on his arm and it was crazy,
but he could feel the heat all the way to his toes. “That’s the
second time you’ve saved my life,” she said.

She made him feel big and powerful and
because he was afraid that he might have a stupid look on his face,
he looked toward the house. “I imagine your grandmother is up from
her nap.”

“I imagine,” she said, her voice soft. “You
know, I’m not sure I can hide it from her.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said. “I
don’t know your aunt and uncle very well but I suspect expecting
either one of them to keep a confidence is a little like a man in a
clean shirt spitting in the wind. Just foolhardy.”

She laughed, like he’d hoped she would. It
made his heart beat a little easier. “I think you’re right,” she
said, “but that’s not what I meant. I’m worried that I can’t hide
that I know she doesn’t expect to see the fall harvest.”

They were less than fifty feet from the front
door. “Maybe she wants to talk about it,” he said.

She stopped. “I know that people are supposed
to be able to rise to the occasion but I’m not sure I’ve got it in
me. I don’t want to make it worse for her because I can’t handle it
well. I don’t want her worrying about me and what’s going to happen
to me when she’s gone.”

He wanted to assure her that he’d be there to
help her but knew that he couldn’t. The footprints, the path back
home, could come at any time. He’d make no promises that he
couldn’t keep.

“You’ll handle the conversation just fine. I
know you will.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said as she pulled
open the front door. They found Pearl and Aunt Genevieve in the
room with the big piano. Pearl sat facing the window with a stack
of newspapers on her lap. Her sister sat across from her, the cat
slumped over her shoulder, back paws visible, front paws hidden by
the woman’s body. She was flipping the pages of what looked to be a
catalog.

Melody knelt on the floor next to her
grandmother and reached for the woman’s hand. “Did you sleep?”

“For a little while,” Pearl said. She tapped
the newspapers on her lap. “I hadn’t made it all the way though the
Sunday paper yet so I’ve spent the better part of the last hour
doing that.”

Sunday paper.
Good Lord. It had to be
two inches thick. Was there so much happening in this strange world
that they needed all that space to tell about it? His fingers
itched to get hold of the newspaper, to somehow get his
bearings.

Aunt Genevieve looked up from her catalog.
“So, what do you think of our little winery?”

“I think you both should be very proud,” he
said.

She nodded, like she was satisfied with his
answer. Pearl sat her papers aside and slowly stood up. “It’s been
a labor of love,” she said. “Now how about I show you the horses.
Genevieve, are you coming?”

“No. I’m going to my room.” She whistled and
the cat, going completely boneless, slid off her shoulder. It
landed in her cradled arms and she held it like one would a baby.
The animal never even opened its eyes. George tried not to stare as
the woman, who had considerably more ease and agility than her
sister, stood up.

“Mona knows I’ll catch her every time,” the
woman said, in way of explanation as she looked at the cat.
“Complete trust, George. That’s what it takes.”

***

Given the questions George asked Grandmother
about the horses, Melody assumed he’d grown up with the animals.
When they got to the corral, he opened the wide gate and stepped
inside, then did nothing but stand there, letting the horses get
used to him being in their space. She and Grandmother stayed back.
When her grandmother folded her arms, placed them on the top rail,
and leaned her weight against the fence, Melody did the same.

He was patient and one by one, all six of
them finally wandered over. He let them smell him and bump their
heads up against his shoulder and his chest. Then he murmured a few
words and gave them a brisk rub between the ears.

“That’s Brontë,” Grandmother said, pointing
to the one who came up last. “I used to ride her every day.”

“She’s a beauty,” George said, running a hand
across the brown mare’s sleek coat. He hadn’t taken his eyes off
the horse. “I had one very much like her,” he said, his voice soft.
“Ran like the wind.”

Grandmother smiled at Melody. “As does she.
There are several saddles to choose from in the barn,” she
added.

George looked over his shoulder at
Grandmother. “Are you sure?” he asked. And Melody knew he wasn’t
asking about the saddle. He was asking permission to take what had
up to now always been Grandmother’s.

Grandmother unfolded her arms and pushed her
body away from the fence. She stared first at the horses and then
at George. She had a soft smile on her face. “I can’t think of
anything that would give me greater pleasure.”

George hesitated for a brief moment before
taking off for the barn, his long stride eating up the distance.
Grandmother turned toward Melody. “I imagine your days of riding
are temporarily over.”

She patted her stomach. “I don’t think Jingle
is so inclined.”

“Jingle?”

“Gender-neutral,” Melody explained.

“Of course.”

It had always been like that with her
grandmother. There’d never been any need for long explanations.
There had been simple understanding, unwavering acceptance,
unconditional love.

Truth.

Until now. Recently neither one of them had
been very forthcoming with that.

She dug her foot into the soft earth and
stared at the almost-unidentifiable shape of the oak trees that
lined the far edge at the property. “You should have told me right
away that you were sick.”

“I’m old, Melody. Old people get sick.”

She could feel the hot rush of tears and knew
that it would take a miracle to keep them back. “I’m so sorry,” she
said. “I wish I could do something.”

Her grandmother reached over and patted her
hand. “You’re here. It’s the biggest something I could have asked
for.”

She turned to face her grandmother and with
an impatient hand brushed off the tears that would not be denied.
“I love you,” she said.

“And I love you, darling. As you will love
your child and then years from now, his or her children. You know
what they say? Children never know how much they were loved until
they have children of their own.”

Melody gently wrapped her arms around her
grandmother’s body and tried to pull her close. Her stomach got in
the way, causing both of them to laugh. “I will be here as long as
you need me,” Melody said, wiping a tear away. “I promise.”

“How does your husband feel about that?”

Melody swallowed.
Truth.
This was her
chance.

“He. . .he. . .,” she stammered.
He’s not
my husband.
She couldn’t do it. She would not give her
grandmother something new to worry about. “He knows how important
you are to me.”

Grandmother smiled. “That’s lovely.” She
reached for Melody’s hand. “You’ve gotten yourself a good man.”

Her good man had gotten a saddle from the
barn and was making short work of getting Brontë saddled. With one
final tug, he tightened the cinch. He put one foot in the stirrup
and swung the other effortlessly over the horse’s back.

“He sits a horse well,” Grandmother said.

Oh boy. Did he ever. His back was straight
and strong and his butt seemed made for the saddle. When he used
his legs to guide the horse, Melody had no trouble imagining what
it would be like to have those same legs wrapped around her.

She felt warm in places the sun couldn’t
possibly reach. George Tyler was handsome, smart, and polite.
Perfect.

It was really too bad this was just a
temporary assignment for him.

“Will you walk me back to the house?”
Grandmother asked. Her voice sounded tired.

“Of course.” Melody put her arm under her
grandmother’s elbow. With one last long look at George, she turned
back toward the house.

When they got inside, her grandmother lay
down on the big green leather sofa and Melody sat at the far end.
She sat quietly long after her grandmother had fallen asleep.
Bright sunshine, split into streaks by the almost-closed horizontal
blinds, danced across the hardwood floor, skipped over the backs of
chairs, and finally settled on her face.

She felt safe and warm and very thankful to
be home. She knew she was wrong to lie to her grandmother. But knew
too that she’d do far worse than lie in order to make the woman’s
last few months on this earth worry-free.

She didn’t know how long she sat there but at
some point she closed her eyes and didn’t wake up until the front
door closed with a slam. She straightened up, realizing immediately
that her neck had been at a most unusual angle for sleeping. She
gently turned her head side to side, easing the kinks out. She saw
then that the afternoon sun had lost both its height and intensity
as the day faded into early evening.

Tilly and Louis walked into the room. Tilly’s
hair was windblown and she wore dark sunglasses. Louis was carrying
his keys in one hand and a half-drunk bottle of beer in the other.
Melody figured they’d been out in their convertible—drinking and
driving. It made her want to wrap her arms around her stomach and
always protect her unborn child from all the fools like them.

Melody glanced at Grandmother just in time to
see her open her eyes, realize who was coming, and close them
again. Melody figured that perhaps she was debating whether or not
she should pretend to still be asleep. Having been cooped up
inside, away from her horses and the myriad of other chores that
would normally have occupied her time, had no doubt given
Grandmother plenty of opportunities to chat with Tilly and
Louis.

Melody decided to help her out. She put a
finger up to her lips. “Be quiet. Grandmother’s sleeping.”

However, either Grandmother’s impeccable
manners kicked in or she’d just plain lost her common sense because
the woman sat up on the couch. She rubbed her eyes. “Where were you
two this afternoon?” she asked.

Tilly’s head jerked up. “Nowhere. Why do you
ask?”

Grandmother shrugged. “Just making
conversation, Tilly.”