Sylvia sat on an old church pew on the back verandah and tied her laces. The early morning air was clean and cool against her skin. The pre-dawn was grey and still. Her vineyard lay spread before her, the grapes hanging beneath their leaves, swelling day by day to meet the approaching harvest. This was her time. Before the sun rose, and the summer heat made physical exertion uncomfortable. She stood up and leaned against the doorframe, carefully stretching first her Achilles tendons and then her hamstrings. Then she skipped down the steps. Her shoes crunched on the gravel path and her brisk walk turned into a jog after she closed the garden gate and set off through the chest-high rows of cool, green vines.
Her morning jog was Sylvia's best thinking time, as essential as sleeping and waking. Only the most extreme weather ever persuaded her to forgo it. Not even the warmest bed kept her from her daily task. Besides, she could usually be back and showered before the staff who helped her manage the vineyard had arrived.
The long rows of vines rose before her as she found her stride, her breath and heart beat rising to meet the slope, the familiar rhythms of foot fall and breath —the engine of her body— confidently ticking over .
The track through the vineyard rose higher, then dipped into a wide valley, clad with the same walls of green. Sylvia paused on the ridge, her thin frame caught in the first ray of sun, her short brown hair glistening with sweat. A ribbon of white mist hung in the valley. A rabbit raced for cover. Hands on hips, she breathed in the warmer air. For a moment, the beauty of it made her feel like bursting as she turned, then continued down the slope.
Sylvia loved this place. She had grown up here and managed the vineyard ever since her father died. Her hard work had turned the business around and she had converted the rundown homestead into a stylish and comfortable home. After a busy life in Paris, where she had studied at the Sorbonne, her days here were a complete contrast. She had good friends in the town nearby, employed an excellent manager and started a small restaurant, specialising in dinners for local wine connoisseurs. But although her days were comfortably busy, she spent most of her evenings alone and often recalled nostalgically the friends she made in Paris nightclubs and the parties that lasted till dawn.
With all her energy directed towards the business, she normally didn't feel the lack of a partner. She told herself that someday soon she would get around to looking but at present she just had too much to do and so far none of the local eligible bachelors had taken her fancy. Last winter when the work slowed down she had tried an online dating agency but none of the respondents had inspired her imagination.
Yes, Sylvia was nearly always busy. When she wasn't busy jogging the long lanes between the vines, she was busy working in the winery, instructing the cellar door staff or coaxing her customers to increase their orders.
Even when she came home at the end of the day and uncorked a bottle from her private cellar, her mind was still at work, with a torrent of thoughts and plans that had her tapping her feet and nibbling her fingernails. She had always found it impossible to persuade her mind to be still, even for a moment, and her body was equally uncooperative when it came to relaxing.
At bedtime she went from wide awake to fast asleep in a few seconds, and woke just as quickly when the birds announced the approach of daybreak.
As a child, her mother had called her hyperactive but she had to admit, her daughter had always worked hard and the energy and passion she put into the vineyard since her parents passed away had seen it steadily grow and prosper.
Her run continued beyond the boundary of the vineyard, up to the steep slope where the forest edge began. She ran on up through the bush, with the crisp crackle of dead leaves beneath her tread and the air heavy with the scents of the trees. As the slope grew steeper her pace slowed and her breathing quickened. She felt the muscles in her calves and thighs rhythmically tighten and release, as she put more effort into each step, driving on, rising higher, carefully watching the rough ground in front for loose, ankle-twisting stones.
The road flattened out at last and the forest opened into a clearing. She came upon the ruins of a timber cottage surrounded by a bed of long grass, overshadowed by trees. For as long as she could remember the ruined cottage had been in the same state. A rusting tin roof still clad the front room and part of the verandah while the rest of the cottage had long ago collapsed.
The well in the backyard was still functional, with the bucket attached to its rope, upturned on the ground beside it.
Sylvia always rested here, sitting on the veranda to let her pounding pulse slow before the return journey. If she was thirsty she let the bucket down and drew up some of the cold, clear water to drink.
But today, the cottage looked different, so different from yesterday, that she did a double take. But it wasn't the cottage that had changed since yesterday. It stood there in its tumbledown state just as she always remembered it. The cottage hadn't changed. What had changed was Sylvia.
Earlier in the week she'd had an email from a Singapore wine buyer, Perry Moncrieff, owner of Moncrieff Wines International. He'd heard about her boutique wines and was interested in placing an order. He was flying in the following day and wanted to know if he could come down to see the winery and taste the latest vintages. Most buyers went through her wholesaler in the city but there were always a few who preferred to buy direct, and Sylvia was happy to give them the tour.
Perry roared up to the winery the next afternoon, not in a rental car as she expected but in a cute little European drop top sports car, his short cropped fair hair unsullied by the wind and his long legs not too stiffened by the relatively close quarters of the car. He had a huge smile in an otherwise well proportioned face and surprisingly dark eyes brightened by the occasional cheeky twinkle.
After the tour and tasting Sylvia realised that Perry Moncrieff was a man who really knew his wine. She always went to a lot of trouble with buyers to give them a thorough understanding of the idea behind each wine, but she found that Perry only needed one sip to get the whole picture — it was as though the wine spoke for itself — and his quiet nod was all the acknowledgement she needed to feel that this man knew exactly what her wine was about.
Sylvia was aware that she tended to talk too much about the wines, partly from nervousness, and partly because it was her passion. With Perry she found herself stopping in mid-sentence because his glance seemed to say, "Ok, just let me feel this for myself."
By the time the business of wine was eventually done, the night was drawing in and Sylvia was delighted. She had sold him a good chunk of her annual produce. To celebrate she invited him up to the homestead and decanted a bottle of one of her father's old favourite cabernet sauvignons, one of a few remaining she had been saving for a special occasion.
While the wine breathed, Sylvia tossed together a simple steak and salad dinner to go with it. They talked wine some more, although Sylvia did most of the talking, Perry listening quietly and adding just enough to the conversation to keep her bubbling along.
