Send Down the Rain(62)

They told me.

“How long do you have?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

I said, “I have a proposition for you.”

I had not cut my hair in a year. Had not shaved. Had not bought new clothes. Wore flip-flops. Overalls. Admittedly, I did not look impressive.

“Oh, really?” They chuckled.

“How about if I loan you the money?”

They looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

“I’ll transfer the money today, now. Tomorrow you can enjoy the sweet satisfaction of walking into your partner’s office and laying the check on his desk. After you two unwind all his bad decisions and turn this thing around, you can pay me back.”

Becca didn’t quite know what to make of me. Tim looked incredulous.

“Are you on the level?” he asked. He’d been burnt by one partner. He’d vowed not to let it happen again. “And what do you want in return?”

I sipped my wine. “I loved a girl one time. Still do. We were a couple of dreamers just like you two. But something got in the way. Never got straightened out.” I pointed out across the vineyard. “I want to see your dream come true.” A tear broke loose and stained my face. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to help.”


TO SAY THEIR PARTNER was surprised would be an understatement. He was furious. He’d played chess and lost. Tim said he threw quite the conniption when Tim laid that cashier’s check on his desk. Paid in full.

Becca and Tim became sole owners and offered to name their first child after me. I laughed. “No need. But you want to do something for me?”

They nodded.

“Two things.”

Tim said, “Name ’em.”

“First, nobody knows my name. Not ever. Look up ‘silent partner’ in a dictionary and you’ll find me. When you tell your story of this place and what happened, you just refer to me as the old man. That’s all. Besides, the mystique will create publicity, and publicity boosts sales.”

Tim raised his glass. “Done.”

Becca leaned in. “And the second?”

I stared out across the vines. “Love each other. Even when it’s hard.”

With our harvest, Becca and Tim set out bottling this year’s production. And in a rather slick marketing move, given that the name of their winery was simply a girl’s first name, they began naming all their subsequent wines with other girls’ names. A rather romantic notion. For reasons I can’t explain, a sommelier of serious reputation tasted Sonoma’s latest boutique label, the Allie, and gave it 97 points.

Things took off from there.

The media and the tourists arrived in busloads. People were dying to know what happened, but Tim kept his word and I worked under the radar. Given my haggard appearance, nobody gave me a second look. I let my overalls get dirtier, stopped wearing deodorant, and pretty much everybody left me alone. As for Becca and Tim, they started making money hand over fist. The more they refused to reveal the mystery around the reclusive, ascetic owner who kept to himself and preferred seclusion over recognition, the more the label grew.

Everything I touched turned to gold. Except people.


MEANWHILE, IN FLORIDA, A wine distributor who had picked up our label was making his rounds of the Florida restaurants. He sat down with Allie and presented the Becca label and last year’s award-winning Allie. “What a coincidence,” he said with a laugh.

Allie studied the brochure, which showcased Tim and Becca and told their story. The up-close picture showed the two of them with their vineyard rolling out behind them. Grapes about to explode. Along the edge of the picture, some distance away, stood the gardener. Tending the vines. His overalls were dirty and tattered. Hair long. Beard longer. Flip-flops on dirty feet. He was turned slightly away from the camera so his face was obscured, but something trailed out of his left front pocket. A small clear plastic tube. The kind used to detect blood sugar levels in diabetics. Allie stared at the picture, the name of the wine, the gardener, and the angle of his broad shoulders.

Three hours later, she boarded a plane.





37

I was standing in the vineyard alongside Tim and Becca, cutting grapes and laying them carefully in large bins. Despite their success and the fact that the White House, some famous French restaurants, and multi-Michelin-star restaurants across the US were now serving their wine, they couldn’t resist the chance to get their hands dirty. It was late in the afternoon, the sun was going down, we were laughing. They were asking questions about my life, and I, as usual, was tight-lipped. They knew I’d traveled, had owned some businesses, but they knew almost nothing about my history. Including my real name.

A figure appeared atop the hill. The sun shone behind the visitor’s back, so all we could tell was that she was female. The wind blew her hair sideways. She shaded her eyes, studied us, and then began walking toward us.

Tim said, “Looks like another lost tourist.”

I watched her walk. The rhythm. The presence. “She’s not lost.”

Allie closed the distance until she stood less than an arm’s length away. She brushed my long hair out of my face. Gingerly. Tears streaming down. “Been looking for you everywhere. Bobby too.”

I nodded. Tim and Becca were listening with rapt attention.

“I’ve called your phone number ten thousand times.”