Page 92 of Kiss My Glass
There follows the kind of pause that always comes after someone has hit the nail right on the head.
“I’ll text Cam,” says Nate. “And I’ll break it gently to Shelby when I see her today.”
“I’ll back you up,” says Lee. She lets out a breath. “And I suppose I’d better start preparing food for the harvest crew.”
“Let me help with that,” I say, and when Lee looks surprised, add, “I’m a handy cook.”
“He is,” confirms Nate, and to me, says, “You realize it’ll be an all-night harvest?”
“I can go all night, bro, don’t you worry.” I wink and enjoy his pained expression.
The coffee pot announces that it’s ready with a strangled hiss of steam. I go to take it off the stove and catch Frankie’s eye.
“Good thing I made a heap of pancakes,” she says. “We’re going to need all the energy we can get. Harvesting is hard work.”
“I’m kind of looking forward to it,” I say, quietly, so only she can hear. “Picking grapes next to you under the moonlight.”
Frankie tries to give me a stern look but a smile escapes, nonetheless. “You’re the world’s most ridiculous optimist, you know that?”
“Guilty as charged,” I say with a grin, and raise my mug of coffee to her in a toast.
“Are you going to tell them?” she says, even more quietly. “About the TV show?”
“Later,” I say. “There’s more than enough going on for us all right now. I can wait.”
Frankie stares at me. This time, her expression stays serious. “I am working on it,” she says. “I can’t give you anything more than that right now.”
A part of me wants to plead with her to at least give me a hint about where her thoughts are at. I don’t need to know specifics, just a general sense that – you know – everything’s going to be okay. But rational me knows that would be counterproductive. I’ll need to be patient about a lot of things, it seems.
“You can give me pancakes,” I tell her. “And you can definitely give me more than Nate.”
“I heard that!” Nate calls from the table. “Do not give him more pancakes than me, Frankie!”
Frankie laughs and shakes her head. “You can both come and get your own pancakes!AfterI’ve served up mine and Mom’s!”
She hooshes me with her hand. “Scoot. Your turn will come.”
And because I am a ridiculous optimist, I choose to interpret that in the most positive way.
ChapterFifty-Three
FRANKIE
Javi has us all lined up like we’re soldiers about to go on a route march. Which is how we’ll feel after a long night of hand picking. Not every vineyard harvests at night, but when the days are hot and long, the cool of night is easier on workers, and better for the grapes. Dad always preferred it, and Shelby and Nate have kept up the practice. We get bright lights brought in, and work our way down the vines, snipping off bunches and placing them carefully in baskets. When the baskets are full, we lug them down to empty them in the bigger containers at the end of the vines. When those are full, one of Javi’s team takes them away on a tractor and loads them onto the truck that’ll transport them to the winery. The grapes spend time in their skins before they’re crushed – the next big day on our calendar. But let’s get this one over with first.
I remember the last time I picked grapes for Dad. Shelby and I were the only Armstrong kids on the crew. Our older brothers, Jackson and Tyler, had other commitments, namely full-time jobs in different states. I envied them. I was about to start community college, and I remember cursing the fact that the year didn’t begin before harvest. I’m no shirker, so I put my back into the picking, but I resented every minute of it.
Looking back, I wish I’d chosen better. Dad and Mom always made harvest a fun time, with a lot of laughter, spurred on by Dad’s bad jokes and his irrepressible positivity. He was probably worrying how the hell we’d pay all the workers who weren’t family, but he never let on. And Mom was always right there, feeding us tasty snacks, keeping us hydrated. She’d cook up a feast for the after-harvest breakfast. Javi always recruited people who were great to be around. I could have enjoyed myself, but I chose not to. What a pain in the ass I was back then. Sorry, fam.
Tonight, I’m here with Cam, Doug, Javi’s team, and Danny. Nate’s been put under house arrest, as Danny calls it. Shelby may have a cesarean planned but babies notoriously do not give a shit what your plans are, so Nate has to stay home, just in case. Mom’s been given a reprieve, too. She and Danny shopped for the food, but seeing how tired Mom still was, Danny gave Javi a call, and his wife, Valentina, has taken charge of our kitchen. If you think Javi runs the harvest like a military operation, you should see Valentina in action. Like a whirlwind with knives. Mom and Nate are hiding out in the rest of the house. Even Ava is too scared to pop in and see how it’s going.
Javi’s finished his pep talk, which is basically a list of what not to do or else. Like I said, Javi isn’t a big guy but you’d never cross him. We start to make our way down the vines, and I feel strangely pleased when I realize I know exactly what I’m doing. After an eight-year break, I thought I’d be rusty, but it’s all coming back. The feel of the grape bunches in my hand, silky and heavy. The clean snip of the shears. The satisfaction of removing any rotten fruit or insects before I place the bunches in the basket. The musty smell of ripe grapes, earth and leaves, and the bite of cooler air on my face as the night settles in. The sky above is clear and every time I glance at it, more stars have appeared, like someone’s up there shaking cosmic salt.
We work one side of the vine rows each. I’m back to back with Cam, whose slow, steady pace is exactly right for this job. Over the other side of me is Danny. The vines are too tall for us to see over the top, but we catch glimpses of each other through the leaves. Mostly, I see Danny frowning with concentration. Probably because he’s back to back with Javi, who has eagle eyes, and Danny does not want to make a mistake.
I should let him focus, but instead, I hiss through the gap, “Are you getting the hang of it?”
“Shit!” I make him jump, and his hand holding the shears darts forward. Luckily, not too far, or I might have been stabbed through the heart.
