Rosie's Last Date

The dew collected on the top side of the leaves. A plump bead rolled down the center, weighing the leaf down more and more as it went. The cool droplet landed on the old man’s arm. The leaf sprung up like a diving board.

Years of sunlight deteriorated his skin to leather. He was barefoot. His shorts and shirt were tattered brown, burlap material. Hansen Potato Company logos scattered about. An old straw hat kept the sun at bay.

“The secret to great wine is great grapes, listen to them.” His hands moved from cluster to cluster. Gently caressing the bunches. Feeling if they were ready to leave the vine. He picked a wrinkled grape and rolled it between his fingers, holding it up to the sunlight. Spying its translucent center. He tossed it in the air and caught it with his mouth and gummed it down to mush. It was nearly bitter.

“Not much sugar.” He said “The grapes will swell and sweeten, yet. They are not ripe.”

Izzy stood next to him. Listening to his words. She was hyper aware of her surroundings. Like a writer, drinking in the worlds details with the hope of building a believable story. Tight blue jeans went good with her natural blonde hair. She picked an immature grape of her own, mimicking the old man, studying the grape. She tossed it in the air and tried to catch it with her mouth. It hit her cheek. They looked at each other and laughed. She picked another grape.

Upon her arrival, the first thing she noticed were the grapes. On this side of the dirt road, stood buildings that contain tanks and presses and everything you would need at a winery. In front of the buildings stood rows of lattice framework. The workers moved from bunches to bunches like bees pollinating flower to flower. The leaves were small. The grape clusters few and far between. Large sections of the sun-bleached framework were visible.

Across the road there stood a small shack, with rose bushes out front. The shady side covered a few small wooden casks sitting on low racks. Trellises ran north and south, for maximum sunlight. The grapes were robust and plentiful. Leaves covered the framework like it was their mission to hide them from the world.

She watched the old man tend to his vineyard for weeks. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. She marched across that dirt road and asked him how he did it. He had told her, “The secret to great wine is great grapes, listen to them.”

He reminded her of her late dad. She reminded him of his late wife. They talked for a while and it wasn’t long before they were sharing stories and laughing over dinner and wine. Izzy would cook one day and then the old man the next. All summer she learned how to grow the grapes, she learned how to listen. Every day the old man would say, “The secret to great wine is great grapes, listen to them.” His body language and the tone of his voice had the spice of someone who loved what he did. The art of viticulture from the old man.

Izzy tossed that grape in the air and caught it this time. They shared a quick confirming look.

“That’s enough for today.” The old man said.

“Ya,” Izzy replied. “Whose turn to cook?”

“Mine.”

They walked down the dirt road to his home. The old man stopped at the rose bushes. He took some shears and cut a fresh rose. They went inside.

The shack had one room and a bathroom. An outdoor table for a dining table. On top of it sat a vase with a day-old rose, and a picture of the old man, before he was old, and a young woman. It was black and white and had yellow sunspots. A date written in the corner. Their anniversary, only two days away. In the picture, she was young, about Izzy’s age. She had the same tight golden curls. Other than the clothes from their respective era, they could have been twins.

The old man replaced the wilted rose with the fresh one and gazed at the photograph.

“I miss my Rosie.” He said.

“She was lucky to have you in her life.”

A tear welted in his eye as he picked up the picture and held it to his chest.

“I miss candle lit dinners with her. I miss dancing with her. I miss sharing a bottle of wine. Hell, I guess, I miss doing… anything, with her.”

Izzy was quiet. She touched his shoulder. He closed his eyes tightly, squeezing a tear out.

“I haven’t felt good today. I didn’t make it to the market.”

“That’s okay.” Izzy said.

“We have rice and venison.”

“Tomorrow I will go to the market for us. Do you feel good now?”

“No.”

“Sit, I will cook.” She helped the old man into his chair. She brought the rice to a boil and seared the venison. After she cooked, she gave the old man his plate and sat down to eat.

“Keith invited me to dinner with him tomorrow night. A three-star restaurant.” She told him.

“Are you gonna go?”

“I wasn’t going to, he’s a slime ball. The first time I met him he gave me a hug and felt me up. I wanted to jab my thumb in his eyeball.” She smiled at him.

“I haven’t been to a three-star restaurant, though. I have always wanted to. I don’t know how he got reservations. That doesn’t really justify using him for a meal, I don’t think.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“So, I told him the truth. I don’t have romantic feelings for him. I would go as a friend, but that’s all.”

“And he agreed to that?”

“He did.”

“As long as you told him the truth and he agreed, I don’t see why you shouldn’t go.”

The restaurant was worth three stars. The food was the best Izzy had ever had. Even Keith wasn’t too bad. He had the waiters bring them a 1990 bottle of Petrus from Pomerol, France. “One of the finest merlots.” He said. They swirled the wine around and took a taste. It was good, but Izzy questioned if it was worth the price.

The night had gone on later than expected. They walked through the vineyard, quietly listening to the sounds of the wind through the leaves. The air was cool but not freezing. The dew was just beginning to set in. The old man’s shack wasn’t too far off.

Keith stopped and looked at her. The moon light accented her eyes. He felt the goose bumps on her arms and leaned into kiss her.

She stopped him. “Keith, I had a great time, but…” He looked at her in disbelief. “But.” He repeated. “But you’re not the guy for me. Thank you for the great evening. I just don’t want to lead you on… I’m not really interested. I hope this doesn’t affect us professionally. Later, Keith.”

He reached out and forcefully grabbed her arm. “Do you have any idea how much that date cost me?! You owe me!” he screamed at her. She struggled to free herself and he tightened his constriction.

The old man heard the commotion from the inside of his shack. He stepped out the door and seen Izzy and Keith struggling. “Hey!” he shouted at them. They both dropped their hands and looked at him. “Leave her alone!” Izzy looked angrily at the old man and shouted back. “I don’t need you to police me, I can look out for myself.” Keith chimed in. “Yea you decrepit old man, go back in---”

Izzy drove her thumb right into Keith’s eye socket. She buried it all the way down to her palm. It didn’t permanently hurt him; the eyeball was squishy and was pushed out of the way and it popped back into place as she pulled her hand back. He started to collapse. Now, it was the hard right knee she drove into his groin that hurt him the most. He laid on the ground. Not even struggling.

She looked at the old man standing in the doorway. She gave him a half smile and spun around and continued her walk home.

The old man stood there for a few hours. He watched as Keith laid there motionless soaking up the moon light. After a while he started to stir, stumbling back the way he came. The old man shut his door, kissed the picture of his late wife, and fell fast asleep.

The next evening Izzy stopped and picked the old man up. It was his and his late Rosie’s anniversary. She drove him out into the country. She had set up a picnic near an old cobble stone archway, it once held up a bridge. It had the feel of a 1900s Paris café.

The only way you could call it a 3-star dinner is if you measured the people around it. The food was simple, and the wine was in a box, the people were good. The perfect combination. Izzy struck a match and lit two candles. They ate and drank and laughed.

The candles burned down to the top of the candle holders. A breeze wafted gentle music around Izzy and the old man. As they finished their dinner, they finished the last glass of merlot. The old man stood up with the vitality of a young man. Forgetting for just a second all his body hurt. He was feeling himself and danced his way to Izzy extending a hand. She grinned and took it.

They danced till he was tired and then a little more. The years and the wine with the memories of Rosie was too much. He lost his energy and his steadiness. He needed her for support. It was late.

She took him home and helped him to bed. She bid him good night to which he said, “I love you, Rosie.” She smiled at him and pulled the door shut on her way out.

The next morning, she found his body. The old man had left it a husk. In his hands he clutched the photograph of his Rosie and rested it on his chest. Izzy knew as soon as she laid eyes on him. His eyes were shut. His slip away had been peaceful, in his sleep.

She didn’t cry. She kissed his forehead. And whispered in his ear. “Rosie loves you too.” She stepped out into the old man’s rose bushes and clipped the last blossom of the year. She pinned it to his shirt and left to call the authorities.

“I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” Chuck, the interim CEO, told her. Izzy finished the summer, working hands on at her father’s favorite vineyard. “It’s a shame the company isn’t making any money. I hope all that college gave you the ideas to turn it around.” “I got a few,” she said coolly, even though she was nervous.

Chuck introduced her to the board of directors of her newly appointed company. They were different races and builds, men and women and they all sat eagerly waiting to hear how the new CEO was going to make the company profitable again.

She was up for days trying to figure it out. Marketing campaigns, community projects, big events to pair wine and food and engage with the community, their social media presence, bundled wine packages, drone deliveries, her speech addressed all these things.

She stood at the podium. She looked at her opening line and how robotic and technical it sounded, and she thought of the old man. Her nervousness left her. She learned the science of this business from school, he taught her the art. She sat her speech down and looked out into the crowd. “The secret to great wine is great grapes, listen to them.”