Page 45 of Love on the Vine
“Documenting. I always go on vacation and forget to take pictures and then regret it when I have only a sad photo taken from the plane window to remember it by. So I’m trying to take at least one photo each day.” She flipped her phone around. “I wanted to capture the light on the leaves, but I’m not doing a great job of it.”
“Here, change the angle.” I put my hand over hers and guided it lower. Her backside pressed into me, and it took all the force I had not to slide my hands over the bit of exposed skin at her waist. Her breath hitched, and I tensed and stepped away as if I’d been burned.
“Thanks.” She smiled weakly up at me. I was struck by the changing colors of her eyes—in this light, the edges were a deeper, vibrant indigo, fading to luminescent in the center. Realizing I was staring, I looked away.
“You don’t take many photos anymore,” she said, and I shrugged. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a picture. “You don’t miss it?”
“I never think about it.” I frowned. Why was that? Probably because I spent all my time running from one place to another. Photography required you to slow down, to be present, all your senses crystallized intonow. That’s how it was with wine as well.I wasn’t doing a great job at being present these days, in fact I preferred to avoid it, for reasons I didn’t want to analyze.
“Jake, viens!” Claire called from the next plot over, waving her arms like she was drowning in the sea of vines.
“She’s been waiting to show you her vine transplant,” Olivia explained. We took our time walking over to the other plot. I didn’t feel like working anymore or worrying about the business. I was content just walking with her in the vines.
Her phone buzzed with a text message. “Oh, how sweet! Chantal’s granddaughter invited me to her birthday party.” Her face fell. “Except that it’s at the end of July. I’ll be back in Paris by then, helping Lucie.”
“Oh, right.” I had to stop myself from saying that she didn’t have to go if she didn’t want to. But that was ridiculous. It would make more sense for her to work with Lucie and meet her industry contacts than to stay with me in Moustiers. I rubbed my hand against the sudden pressure in my sternum.
“Did your meetings go well?” she asked.
“Honestly, I don’t know.” I stopped and turned to face her. And then, somehow, I found myself admitting the secret I’d been hiding for so long. “I feel like I’m not cut out for this job anymore.” It was a relief to finally say it out loud.
“What do you mean?” Her wide eyes searched mine.
I shoved my hands into my pockets. “You noticed I don’t drink much.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s because I can’t taste anything anymore. Or I can, but it doesn’t taste the same. There’s an aftertaste, a sort of bitterness.”
“Since when?”
I scratched the side of my head, not wanting to admit to the timeline. “It started last December.”
When I went back home for the first time in over a decade and realized I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted anymore.
“Is it just wine or food?”
“Mostly wine, but sometimes food too. There’s no physiological reason for it. I had tests done.” I kicked at a pebble on the ground. “And I haven’t told anyone.”
“Oh,” she said softly as it dawned on her that she was the only one who knew. I couldn’t understand myself why I’d chosen to tell her.
“It’ll pass. It’s not important.” I tried to downplay it, turning my attention to the setting sun. “I’ll tell you what is . . . the sunset from that rock up there. Come on.”
“What about Claire?” she asked as she followed me up the gently sloping hill.
“She’ll have to wait,” I said, reaching out my hand to help her onto the rocky viewpoint at the top. “This is where I used to come by myself after a harvest. It’s one of my favorite views.”
“Wow, it’s breathtaking,” Olivia said, catching her breath, as she took in the valley below. “Now I see why they call it theCôte d’Or.”
The sun glinted off the burnished highlights in her hair and I caught a wayward strand, rubbing it between my fingers before pushing it behind her ear. She went very still, her lips parted, and I was suddenly conscious of how close I was standing to her. I could so easily bend down and taste those lips again, feel her tremble beneath me.
Instead, I moved away and looked back out over the valley. “Everything I loved about wine—that I do love about it—is here. I just wish I could recapture the same sense of purpose I had back then.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing that you had to come this week,” she said uncertainly. “If you’re able to remember why you love something, it helps, right?”
I hoped that would be the case, but I wasn’t holding my breath. All I wanted for now was to forget about sales, meetings, and bottom lines. All that mattered was right now.
As we walked down the hill toward Claire, I tried to fix the moment in my memory: the golden light of the setting sun, the tender green leaves of the vines, and the familiar sound of Claire’s gravelly laugh.
