Here With Me (5 page)

It was just that he’d been so darn convincing
on the beach. He’d looked at her with those intense green eyes and
she’d started to think that maybe he was the answer to her prayers.
What had possessed her to do something so crazy?

She drove north for another ten minutes
before flipping on her turn signal. She slowed the car down, made a
right hand turn, leaving the main road. “We’re almost there,” she
said, “another fifteen minutes at the most. Grandmother’s house is
up in those hills.”

He nodded, his attention on the grapevines,
supported by their trellis system, that flanked both sides of the
paved road. The man just did not talk much. “You know,” she rambled
on, “over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we
go.”

He didn’t even blink.

“Except there’s no river and no woods. Just
grapes,” she added, like an idiot. She put her foot on the brake
and stopped the car. “George, let’s just admit it. This is never
going to work.”

“We’re not even there yet and you’re giving
up?” he asked. Before she could answer, he let go of the door
handle and turned his head to glance out the window. “Pretty
country,” he said.

It was beautiful country, so lush in the
springtime. Summer would bring the heat, which would be almost
unbearable, but so necessary if the grapes were to ripen and
sweeten. Fall would bring the rains. There’d be a push to bring the
grapes to harvest before that happened.

“The closest bus station is less than a half
hour from here,” she said, trying to get him back on topic. “I’ll
drop you off and you can. . .uh. . .pick up your life where it was
before I so rudely interrupted it.”

“So grapes are the only crop?” he asked, his
head still turned toward the window.

There was no time for a horticulture lesson.
“Mostly. There are a few olive trees, for the heck of it. I mean,
after all, this
is
wine country.”

“I don’t see any grapes on those vines,” he
said, sounding concerned.

“It’s too early yet. What will be grapes are
now just buds.”

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing in the
air.

“A wind machine. Sort of a really big fan.
Frost is a vineyard manager’s worst nightmare. These machines can
mix the warmer air, which lingers somewhere about twenty feet above
ground, with the colder air at the surface. Many times that’s all
that’s needed to ward off significant damage to a grape crop.”

He finally turned to look at her. “I don’t
know much about growing grapes.”

He should stop worrying. He wasn’t staying
that long. “There are plenty of people here who do,” she said,
dismissing his concern.

“Like your aunt and uncle?” he asked.

“Uh. . .no. Tilly and Louis mostly work on
the business end and leave the grape-growing to others.”

“You don’t sound all that fond of them.”

Damn. Either he was more perceptive than most
or she hadn’t been as careful as usual. “We’ve never been close.
It’ll be even worse now.”

“Why is that?”

“Because of the baby. They weren’t able to
have children. Tilly resented that her sister, my mother, was able
to. It probably didn’t help that once my parents were gone,
Grandmother doted on me. Now that I’m pregnant, it’ll be just one
more reminder.”

He glanced at her foot, which still rested on
the brake. “So the father doesn’t want the child and your family
will resent it. Seems like quite a burden for the unborn.”

She pressed her hand to her abdomen. “I’ll
protect my child,” she said. She frankly didn’t care what Tilly and
Louis thought. She’d stopped doing cartwheels for them a long time
ago once she’d figured out it was them and not her that were the
problem.

“Does your grandmother know that there’s
friction between you and your aunt and uncle?”

“She knows we’re not great friends but we’re
all very civil to one another. As long as they’re nice to
Grandmother, it’s not important how they feel about me.” It was her
grandmother’s opinion that mattered. The woman had given her a home
and loved her unconditionally. “Look, I’ll admit that it’s not the
best circumstance,” she said, “but I can’t worry about the things I
can’t change. I won’t waste my time.”

“Speaking of time, shouldn’t we be
going?”

The enormity of what she was about to do made
her chest hurt. She was about to take a stranger into her family’s
home and pass him off as her husband. More important, from his
perspective, she was about to subject this poor man to an
inquisition better reserved for insurgent rebels. “George, I don’t
think this—”

Her cell phone rang and she grabbed it out of
her purse. George jerked back and bumped his shoulder against the
car door.

“Hello,” she said.

“You’re late. Your grandmother is worried and
Louis and I have plans this afternoon.”

As usual, Tilly’s voice was loud and just shy
of shrill. Maybe that was why George was staring at the phone like
it was about to sprout wings. “Tilly, please let her know that I’m
close,” Melody said.

“You know we eat at one o’clock.”

“I know. I’ll be there in. . .” She looked at
her watch. It would take her another hour by the time she turned
around, dropped George off at the nearest bus station, and
returned. “Go ahead and eat without me,” she said. She’d lost her
appetite anyway.

“You’re alone?” Her aunt’s voice rose, in
interest and raw speculation.

“I’m. . .”

George put his hand on her arm. His skin was
shockingly warm. She looked at him and he was shaking his head.

She felt sick and dizzy and knew it was
because she was teetering on the edge of reason. Was it really
possible that she could pull this off, that she could convince her
grandmother and the rest of the family that she was a happily
married woman?

She knew she had to try.

“I’m showing my husband the grapes,” she
said. “We’ll be along shortly.”

She heard Tilly’s hiss and then the
connection was gone. “Oh boy,” she said, feeling like her head
wasn’t connected to her body any longer, “now I’ve done it.”

George sat forward on the seat and grabbed
the door. “We should probably be getting on. You need to have your
noon meal. You’re eating for two now,” he said, his voice even
kinder.

Melody pounded her fist on the steering
wheel. “Yeah, but, don’t you see? Now you’re stuck. I’m stuck.” She
stopped pounding and pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose,
willing herself not to cry. “I’ve never lied to my grandmother.
Ever. Until now. I. . .” she sucked in a breath, “I don’t want her
to die being disappointed in me.”

She closed her eyes and focused on breathing
and swallowing. It would be the icing on the cake if she lost her
cookies, or more appropriately, her crackers, in the poor man’s
lap. She heard him unlatch his seatbelt and then the sound of his
door opening.

And she knew that he’d decided that walking
back to the bus station was preferable to sitting in the car with a
crazy pregnant woman. It was what she wanted, right? How could it
hurt so much?

There was a soft knock on her window. He
stood there, waiting. She reached for her purse. Of course, she’d
owed him for his time this morning. He probably needed it for bus
fare. She pulled out forty dollars, opened her door, and handed it
to him. “Good luck,” she said and meant it. None of this was his
fault.

He ignored her hand and the money in it.
“Take my seat,” he said.

“What?”

“You’re in no shape to operate this car. I’ll
take us the rest of the way.”

“You’re staying?”

“I gave you my word.” He motioned with his
hand for her to get out. “Please.”

Feeling numb, she got out and walked around
the car. By the time she got in, he was already behind the wheel,
with his seatbelt buckled. He waited until she buckled her own belt
before he pressed his foot to the gas.

The engine of the car raced.

A dull red crept up the man’s neck.

“It helps if you put it in Drive,” she
said.

He stared at her blankly. She pointed to the
console between them. He grabbed the lever and moved it to drive.
They took off with a jerk and she was glad she was strapped in.

“You don’t drive much, huh?” she asked.

“Not much,” he said. His hands were wrapped
tight around the wheel and he sat too far forward on his seat to be
comfortable. He had, however, managed to even out the pace and now
they drove a sedate twenty-five miles an hour down a road that most
people took at sixty. She looked behind them and was relieved to
see that they were the only car on the road.

The man probably rode mass transit every day.
Many of her friends in the city didn’t even have cars. “George, I
guess I should know what you do for a living,” she said. “Since
we’re married,” she added lamely.

He drove for another minute. “I used to be a
sheriff,” he said. He said it simply, proudly.

“But not anymore?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

She wanted all the details but knew she
didn’t have the right to ask. He’d probably had a desk job and
ultimately became a victim of the bottom line. Every community in
the country was cutting back on their public services. No wonder
the man looked down and out.

“When this little charade is over,” she said,
“I’d be happy to help you find something. I’ve helped people with
job searches before.”

He nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Turn at the next right,” she said, directing
him to the road that would take them out of the valley and up into
the hillside. He took the turn, which was sharp, without braking.
She grabbed the handle of the door, just as he had done for the
entire morning, and hung on.

She didn’t want to be bossy but she’d been
driving this road since she was sixteen. “This gets pretty curvy
and narrow in spots,” she warned. When he gave her a quick glance,
she made a point to look toward his feet and added, “Gives the
brakes a good workout.”

They almost jerked to a complete stop at the
next turn. She felt like she was back in driver’s ed. She’d been
partnered with Judy Barnitski, who’d never really ever gotten the
hang of the brakes either.

“They can be a little touchy,” she said, not
wanting him to feel bad. He didn’t answer and she braced herself
for the next curve.

It went remarkably well. She didn’t let go of
the door handle but she did start to breathe again. He was clearly
a faster learner than skinny Judy had been.

“What name did you call your husband by?” he
asked, after they’d negotiated two more turns successfully.

It was nice of him to sort of pretend that
there had been a husband. “Michael Johnson. I wanted something very
common so that if someone tried to Google him, there would be a
thousand hits.”

He looked absolutely perplexed.

“Not a lot of computers at the sheriff’s
office, huh?”

He didn’t respond. “Michael Johnson,” he
repeated. “I guess I could get used to it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell them that
your full name is Michael George Johnson but that you prefer to go
by George. Then you only have to remember Johnson.”

“I’ll remember. So you’re Melody
Johnson?”

She could feel the heat all the way up to her
ears. “I guess I am.”

He took his eyes off the road long enough to
turn and smile at her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs.
Johnson.”

***

The house was a pale gray wood with white
shutters and white trim on the immense wraparound porch. It
sprawled across the land, two or three stories high in some places,
bigger than any house he’d ever seen before. It was surrounded by
green grass. Off to the far right side, there was a fountain like
he’d seen in picture books. It was built of stone and had to be at
least fifteen feet wide at the base and twenty feet in the air. It
was an angel in flight, and water flowed from her wings. The light
breeze caught the spray and carried it across the empty bench that
sat in front of it.

He slowed the car down and turned to Melody.
“This is your grandmother’s place?”

She gave him the same wobbly smile that he’d
seen on the beach. It made her look very young and he was more
thankful than ever that he was there to help her.

“I guess I didn’t mention that Grandmother
owns one of the most successful midsized wineries in the Valley.
Sweet Song of Summer
wines are sold across the country. Song
is my grandmother’s last name. This ranch is called Songbook
Serenade.”

“Ranch?” It didn’t look like any ranch he’d
seen.

“That’s what the people who live here call
their land. It’s sort of a shorthand way to refer to a neighbor’s
property.”

“And your grandmother named it?”

“Her father did. Grandmother kept her maiden
name when she married my grandfather and my mother did the same.
Pretty unusual for my grandmother’s generation but pretty much old
stuff by the time my parents got married in the mid 1970s.”

He’d married Hannah in the mid 1880s. She’d
taken his name with pride. “And they named you Melody. Melody
Song.”

She rolled her eyes. “First grade was not a
good year for me.”

He understood. He’d stuttered until he was
eight. “Children aren’t always kind.”

She patted her stomach. “Mine will be,” she
said. She waved a hand toward the house. “The house has been added
onto over the years, but the original structure is almost a hundred
and thirty years old,” she said. “Can you believe that?”

He wasn’t all that far behind. “I guess I
can,” he said. “What’s over there?” he asked, pointing to the
largest of the outbuildings. It was painted red and had a steeply
sloping, shiny tin roof.

“That’s the wine shed.” She smiled at him.
“Not a very fancy name, I know. There’s office space inside,
storage space for extra barrels, and the bottling operation in the
rear. You can’t see it from here, but there’s a large cement
paddock behind the shed where the grapes are processed as well as a
couple fermentation tanks, too.”