Ellen Crosby - The Riesling Retribution

Her unspoken invitation lingered in the air as a large bird flew out of the woods and sailed above us.

“A red-tailed hawk,” Quinn said, filling the awkward moment of silence. “Look.”

We watched as it turned west toward the mountains, a graceful silhouette against the peach-colored early evening sky. What remained of the sunlight bronzed the treetops as though they’d been burnished and the light breeze felt like a warm caress. Pockets of sunshine filtered through the branches like spotlights, shimmering on the leaves like moving water.

“I ought to be going,” I said. “You two stay and drink your beers.”

“You haven’t finished your wine,” Quinn said. “What’s your rush?”

Savannah swung a leg over the arm of her chair and rocked it back and forth. The red high-tops were dirtier than they’d been this morning.

“Quinn says you’re reenacting the Battle of Ball’s Bluff here pretty soon.”

“The weekend after next,” I said.

“I’d like to see it,” she said. “I know the cemetery quite well.”

“I’ve heard it’s haunted,” I said. “That spirits of soldiers who were never properly buried come back to roam the battleground.”

Quinn snorted. “That is such a load of crap.”

“I’ve heard those stories. And I know people swear by them. They also claim they see Mosby’s ghost.” Savannah drank her beer. “Sorry, you two. When the spark of human life is gone, it’s gone. A skeleton is nothing more than what’s left after the really important stuff isn’t there anymore.”

“It’s still part of who that person was,” I said. “Isn’t it?”

Savannah looked taken aback. “Of course. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t mean to imply that it’s nothing but a pile of bones. I always show respect for the remains I examine. In fact, when I’m at the museum in Cairo I give my skeletons names.”

“That’s kind of weird,” Quinn said.

“Not really. The Egyptians believed the way to keep a person alive in the afterlife was by speaking his or her name, saying it out loud. That’s why the enemies of the pharaohs tried to destroy their monuments, carving out or slashing the names. By doing that you erased the person in the afterlife.”

“So you believe you’re keeping someone alive, even though he’s dead, because you say his name?” I asked.

“It’s more like paying homage to the Egyptian belief that a person’s name is an integral part of who he is.”

“And you never sense that person is present—that he’s there, somehow—when you’re talking to him, saying his name?”

“Sorry, no.” She shook her head. “Although I know plenty of people who do believe in that kind of stuff. I even know people who claim to be the reincarnation of Tutankhamen. Or one of the other pharaohs.”

“You must have some interesting friends,” Quinn said.

Savannah smiled. “I attend a lot of seminars, especially ones that relate to ancient cultures. They show up there.”

“Claiming to be Tutankhamen?” he asked.

“In the flesh. We, uh, call them ‘pyramidiots.’ I know that’s not very nice, but some of these people…” She twirled her finger by her temple. “It can get pretty strange.”

Quinn motioned to Savannah’s empty beer bottle and my wineglass. “Another refill, anyone?”

“No, thanks,” Savannah said. “Two’s my limit. Besides, I ought to be going. Thanks for the beers and the hospitality. You’ve been very kind.”

“Why don’t I walk you to your car?” Quinn said.

“I’d like that.” She stood and turned to me. “Thanks again, Lucie.”

“It was nothing.” I started to put the empty bottles and my glass on the tray.

“Leave that. I’ll take care of it,” Quinn said to me. “See you in the morning, okay?”

“Sure. Good night.”

I reached for my cane and left without looking back. Quinn was already talking to Savannah about showing her the barrel room, persuading her not to leave just yet.

When I got home, I went directly outside to the veranda and watched the Blue Ridge disappear into the velvet blackness of the night sky. After a while I went inside and got another bottle of Riesling. Then I lit all the torches in the border garden and all the candles scattered on the tables until it felt like I was sitting in a gilded bath of fire. For a long time, I rocked back and forth in the glider, listening to the night sounds of the cicadas and frogs and the occasional owl, as I slowly drank glass after glass of wine.

Someone once said that if you wish to keep your affairs secret, you should drink no wine. But if there was no one around—and certainly no affair—then it didn’t matter, did it?

Quinn woke me the next morning when the sun was already bright and hot in the sky. I was still in the glider wearing yesterday’s clothes. My empty Riesling bottle lay on the floor and my wineglass sat on the glass coffee table among multiple sticky rings of sloshed wine.

“Now I know why you didn’t show up for work.” He picked up the bottle. “Been drinking up all our profits single-handedly, have we?”

I held my head between my hands. “Please don’t. I feel dreadful.”

“I’ll make some coffee and get the aspirin. Don’t move.”

“Don’t worry.” I lay back down and closed my eyes.

He was back a short while later with two mugs and an aspirin bottle sticking out of the pocket of his jeans. “Here. Drink this.”

He sat down next to me. As usual, he’d brewed coffee strong enough to strip paint.

“Thanks.”

“Something you want to talk about?” he asked. “I knew you were upset last night when you left. I was going to call you, but things went kind of late with Savannah.”

“It’s okay.” I felt numb, except for a headache the size of Pittsburgh. Did “kind of late” mean breakfast?

“I’ve got some good news. You’ll like this.” He blew on his coffee. “Savannah’s teaching schedule is sort of erratic so she gets days off here and there. She agreed to help us out during harvest when she’s free.”

“She’s going to work for us?”

“Yup. She’s a real quick study. I took her over to the barrel room and showed her around after you left. Gave her a little education about winemaking. She’s excited about doing this.”

“That’s nice.”

I drank more coffee.

“That’s all you’ve got to say? ‘That’s nice’? We could use the help, you know. People like her don’t fall off trees.”

He’d set the aspirin bottle on the coffee table. I shook out two tablets and swallowed them with a big gulp of coffee. He was right. We could use Savannah’s help. I needed to pull myself together and get over any issues I had with how he felt about her. And jealousy. I needed to get over that, too.

“I’m sorry. I guess everything that’s happened the past few days finally caught up with me last night. You’re right. We could use her.” I set down my mug. “Why don’t I shower and change and meet you at the winery?”

“Sure. Come on over when you’re up to it.” He patted my knee like I was a child. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“What?” My heart began thudding against my rib cage.

“It can wait.”

“Maybe you’d better tell me now.”

“If you say so.” He cocked his head. “It’s about the Riesling.”

“The Riesling?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to pick it all at harvest. I’m thinking about leaving about a third of the crop on the vines until the first frost so we can make ice wine.”

Ice wine is a highly concentrated sweet dessert wine made from frozen grapes. No one in Virginia made it because it was such a risky and expensive venture. If the grapes stayed frozen, we could pick them at any time. But a hard frost at night, then warmer temperatures the next day meant the fruit would thaw and start to rot and we’d end up with nothing.