I made eye contact with my parents and saluted them then gestured to my exit. “I’m going to make my rounds!” I shouted then grinned as I climbed out of the barrel and made my way down the stairs.
Trip was waiting for me at the bottom. “Hey, birthday girl. That’s quite the mess you got yourself into there.”
I laughed when I looked down at my white dress. It was covered with purple stains, just as I had expected. Then I slapped my hands to my sides and looked back at him. “Wouldn’t be a proper grape stomp without making a mess of things, now would it, Trip?”
“Well, then get back in there, and I might just follow.”
He grinned down at me, triggering the warning bells in my brain. Over the past few months, I had started to see a shift in his attitude toward me. No longer did he act like an older, protective brother but like someone who might like me as more than a friend.
I didn’t know what made me feel that way exactly. Maybe it was the extra-long glances, the easy smiles, or the fact that he still tried to go everywhere with me even though his babysitter status had expired. Maybe it was a blend of all the above, but I’d started to believe what everyone else around me had been hinting at for years.
Trip stepped closer. His proximity was stifling. I laughed, trying hard to hide my discomfort. I gently placed a hand on his arm and noticed Josie waving me down from the side of the crowd. “There’s something I need to do.” I waved an arm at the barrel. Everyone’s shrieks of laughter rose as more people were added. “If you’re not purple by the time I come back, I’ll be terribly disappointed.”
With a chuckle, I backed away and darted through the crowd toward Josie, where she was waiting with a devious grin. “You ready to head to the cave and taste some grapes, birthday girl?”
My grin matched hers as I nodded. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
11
Ridge
An early morning delivering hay to one of Harold’s customers preceded an unexpected and eventful day on the farm. It had rained a few days prior, so our harvest schedule was slightly off. With the sun shining bright and not a cloud in the sky, we had the tractor equipment prepped and were finally ready to go pick some corn.
“Whadda ya say, son? Time to open up these fields or what?”
Harold clapped a heavy hand on my back before giving my neck a squeeze that radiated his excitement. Harvest season was what my papa lived for, apparently. Over the past two and a half years since moving to Telluride, I’d learned a lot about my old man. For one, his smile was as rare as finding an ore of silver from an abandoned mine. I didn’t have the heart to argue with Harold when he was in a good mood.
“I’m ready. Let’s fuel up.”
He nodded and clapped once before putting his fingers between his lips and whistling. A second later, Bruno, our two-year-old border collie, came running up to join us, his mouth hanging open in a ridiculous smile, like he knew exactly what we were setting out to do.
Harold had picked up Bruno as a puppy soon after I moved to the farm. I suspected he’d bought him for me, but the pup refused to leave Harold’s side. They became fast friends, going everywhere together, into town and around the farm. It turned out that Harold was a sucker for furry friends.
We walked over to the tractor, and Harold jumped on to start the engine. When he jumped back down, he pointed at the front of the machine. “Help me attach the chopper to the picker, then meet me on the high field with the bin!” he yelled over the loud engine. “We’ll start with the headland. I’ll get ’er started, then you can take over for me.”
My jaw dropped, and Harold noticed. He winked and clapped me on the back again. “You’re eighteen, son. Time to get ya on a real tractor.”
My job had always been to follow him out onto the field, basically for the purposes of pulling him out of the mud when he would get stuck. I also drove the bins around to collect and move the husks of corn as we gathered them. But picking the corn and operating the harvester had always been Harold’s job. I had never even questioned it.
It took us another hour to get out onto the field. Farming was never as simple as it seemed. Some sort of mechanical issue, a flat tire, or climate issues hindered work that needed to be done. So when we finally made it out onto the field and began plowing the crops, it felt like the hard part was over.
After dumping a few rows of corn, with Bruno happily running after us through the fields, Harold set the tractor to idle and gestured for me to head over to him. He gave me a crash course with the controls, then I was on my way.
We worked through breakfast and lunch, stopping for minutes at a time to scarf down the pile of sandwiches we’d brought with us. In the early evening, I dumped my last load of cobs into the moveable bin, and Harold immediately started hooking up the bin to his tractor.
“You done good, son. Bring the harvester back, and I’ll get the bin over to the silos.”
I nodded and had just begun to turn when Bruno started growling and barking at the line of trees at our backs. Harold looked over my shoulder and immediately adopted a sour expression. “Happy Harold” was long gone, just like that.
“What is it?” All I could see was the entrance to the woods that reached the bridge over Cornett Creek.
“Damn Bell family, having one of their ritzy festivals again.” Harold shook his head and snapped at Bruno to stop yapping. “If I had a party for every harvest that took place on this farm, we’d have no time for work.” He let out a huff and took off walking.
Bruno followed, while I lingered a minute longer, staring back at the woods. Camila had told me about the harvest festivals she took part in every year. Knowing that it was yet another event my family wasn’t invited to made me understand Harold’s frustration. If anyone was keeping up with the ridiculous feud, it was Camila’s dad.
I couldn’t blame Harold’s shift in mood when it came to talking about the Bells. They’d sure done a number on our business operations over the past six months. Before that, Patrick Bell had been less than welcoming, but he hadn’t made moves to blackball us. Guilt gnawed at me. The last time I had seen Camila, she’d looked at me like I’d crushed her with my harsh words. Then Trip was right there to take her home like the good Boy Scout he was.
I didn’t doubt that Camila and I being together that night had gotten back to her father, either by Trip or by an angry Camila, but I didn’t like to dwell on those thoughts. The anger they brought with them had the power of engulfing me in flames. But the guilt had been getting to me. Little by little, day after day, with every passing moment that I avoided Camila and she avoided me, the bubble of the volcano threatened beneath my feet.
Something was about to erupt. Someone was bound to get burned. And my only answer to it all was to finish harvest season, pack my bags, then leave Telluride behind.
12
Camila
The cave Josie and I went to every year was an actual cavity of land on the side of the mountain near the east wing of our home, where we stored our barrels to age. A tunnel connected the cave to the wine cellar where my parents kept their personal wine collection. And “taste some grapes” was our code phrase for sneaking wine from the already fermented barrels.