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“I’m looking for my intern. Ashley. She was working out here yesterday.”
“Yeah, yeah. She does good work for a beginner.”
“Glad to hear that.” Of course I expect nothing less from Ashley. “I’ll just go find her.”
“Wait. She’s not here today.”
I lift my eyebrows. “She’s not? Ryan said she was working the harvest.”
“Not here,” George says. “She never checked in with me.”
“That’s puzzling.”
Except it’s not, really. Already I know where I’ll find her.
“Thanks, George,” I say. “See you around.”
“You too. Have a good day.”
I walk back to my truck and drive to the northern vineyards, specifically to the area where I can access the Syrah. Autopilot. I’m pretty sure my truck could find its way here by itself, I come here so often.
I left here only a couple of hours earlier.
I pull into the gravel parking area and stop abruptly, skidding a little.
Yeah, I’m angry, but I have no reason to be. Ashley has reason to be angry. I do not.
I walk into the vineyards, my feet instinctively taking me to my own special place.
And there she stands.
Ashley.
My Ashley.
Not my Ashley.
She doesn’t turn toward me, but in her sweet voice, she says, “I figured you’d come.”
I don’t respond.
Still not looking at me, she continues, “It’s beautiful. Paradise, even. I understand why you’re drawn here.”
“You don’t,” I say.
“Oh, I do.” She finally turns and meets my gaze. “Do you think you’re the only person in the world who’s had it rough?”
I stiffen. Ashley knows nothing of my first ten years on this earth, and I’m not about to clue her in. “I never said I had it rough.”
She shakes her head, chuckling softly. “Dale, a person doesn’t become such a recluse without having a tough time.”
“Tough time, huh? You’ve talked on more than one occasion about my privilege.”
“Have I?” She chuckles again. “I suppose I can’t help myself. I’ve had to scrape my fingernails to the bone for everything I have in life, so I guess I’m a little envious of those born to privilege.”
I clear my throat. “As you know, I wasn’t born to it.”
“True.” She turns from me and stares at the vines heavy with fruit. “When do we start harvesting the Syrah?”
“Soon.”
She turns back to me, her blue eyes stricken with something I can’t identify. “That must bother you.”
It does, but how would she know?
“I mean,” she continues, “this is your special place. And for weeks you’ll have strangers in here, defacing your vines.”
“The fruit needs to be harvested. Especially this year. This vintage will be our first old-vine Syrah.”
“Still,” she says, “it bothers you.”
I can’t deny her words. I don’t even try. Though harvest is my favorite season, when the workers descend into the Syrah vineyard, it’s tough for me. My sanctuary is invaded, and I have nowhere to go to find the solace I crave. But I make do. I head into the mountains, usually, each weekend, and camp alone, building a fire to keep warm and relaxing in the fresh open air.
But Sunday evening I return, because it’s harvest time, and I’m needed here.
Ashley looks to the east, toward the majestic Rockies. “You can find peace here, Dale, but is that all you need?”
Peace? I’ve never found peace, though the vineyards are the closest I’ve ever come.
She goes on, “Are you happy alone?”
“Alone? Have you forgotten what a huge family I have?”
Her soft chuckle echoes once more. “I didn’t say lonely. But you can have hordes of people around you and still be alone. You don’t let anyone in.”
“That’s not true,” I counter. “And this isn’t your business anyway.”
“Isn’t it?” She turns away from the view of the mountains and meets my gaze again. “I believe I’ve opened myself up to you more than I have to any other person in my life.”
I open my mouth to respond, but she gestures me not to. Just as well, as I’m not sure what to say anyway.
“I don’t say that lightly,” she continues. “I’m not like you. I’m close to my mother, and I’m close to my friends. I’ve opened up before, but not like this.”
I inhale slowly, my flesh ever aware of her body close to mine. Fog enters my mind. But not gray fog. It’s more like the steam rising from a lake after the first snowfall. Freakish in its beauty.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re not answering,” she says.
“You didn’t actually ask a question.”
Again, the soft chuckle. “You’re right. I didn’t. So I will now.” She looks back toward the mountains. “Is this better? Better than making love with me?”
A brick hits my gut. A loaded question if there ever was one, and I know the answer. But I can’t share it with her.
“Ashley—”
“No,” she interrupts me. “I don’t think I want to hear the answer.”
“Then why did you ask the question?”
“Beats the hell out of me.” She shakes her head. “You were here this morning, weren’t you?”
