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By the time we reached the shed, hailstones the size of robin’s eggs littered the ground.
Protected beneath the shed’s roof, I opened the passenger door and stood on the running board to survey the truck’s roof and hood. “Look at all the dents.”
Luke groaned. “If Pierce’s Disease doesn’t destroy the vines, hail will.”
Ten minutes later, the storm let up.
The ground was white with an inch of hailstones. Luke raced to the vineyard, slipping on the icy pellets.
I followed, a lump in my throat as I viewed the damaged vines and bruised, pea-size grapes. All our work…
His shoulders slumping, Luke bolted from vine to vine, row to row.
“I’m so sorry.” I reached for his arm wanting to connect—ease his pain and mine.
“It’s not your fault.” Growling, he shrugged me off.
“I know, but this hail on top of Pierce’s Disease is so…unfair…” My words trailing off, I spoke to the air as he dashed to the next vine. “Luke…?”
****
At dinner, he seemed in a fog.
“Want more Salisbury steak? Peas?”
Barely eating or speaking, he only nodded or grunted.
****
The next morning, he stared blankly at his breakfast.
Caught between wanting to comfort him and give him space, I was stymied.
He got up from the table without a word.
“Aren’t you going to finish your eggs? And you never touched your bacon.” I forced a smile. “It’s your favorite—hickory-smoked and uncured.”
“Give it to the dog.” He pushed open the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Where else? The vineyard. Try to salvage what I can.”
I glanced at the window. “But it’s raining.”
“Then I’ll fix the sprayer.”
“You said the weather had to be perfect to spray the pesticide.”
“I’m not spraying. I said I’ll fix the sprayer!” He slammed out the door.
My chest tightening, I forced a deep breath.
****
Luke skipped lunch and tromped into the cabin at dusk, wearing mud-caked boots.
I set newspapers on the floor. “Why don’t you leave your boots by the door?”
