The pond lay at Mark's feet, flat and still, the warm mud of its banks squishy around his boots. It was not a "wine-dark sea" so much as an algae-choked, waterfowl besmirched interruption in the otherwise perfect linear grid of the vineyard.
The water buffalo stood nonchalantly in the middle of the pond, acting as if she had no idea what all the ruckus was about. Or perhaps she was pretending that it had nothing to do with her. Mark was sure the huge black animal was resolute in not making eye contact.
"
La dee dah, who, me? In your pond? Is this
your
pond? Oh my!
And who can blame her?" he thought. The merciless August sun pounded down on the hillside, nipping and biting at any shadow with the temerity to show itself. Neither was there a breath of wind to relieve the dry heat, only the buzz and whir of grasshoppers in the cover crop. So hot that it made the world silent, a silence within which one might almost hear the grapes growing.
It was certainly too hot to be running about if one were a water buffalo, what with 'water'
right there
in the name.
The buffalo was his neighbor's bright idea. Fresh mozzarella; rich,
buffalo
mozzarella. "Couple that with your wine and olive oil and we'll have a real attraction going on. What could go wrong?"
For one thing, a water buffalo, even the allegedly domesticated Italian riverine variety, mostly go where they want to go. When the electric fence shorted out it had taken an eyeblink for a dozen of the beasts to discover the fault, push past the threadbare fence, and start munching on Mark's very expensive, hard won Cabernet grapes.
Luckily, Tomás had been working with a crew nearby and spotted the ecstatic bovines. He and the other three of the crew had managed to herd the animals back and quickly restore the fence.
All except this one animal. Mark stood watching, hoping to keep it in the pond and away from the vines until his idiot neighbor could arrive with a livestock truck to retrieve it. He could hear the truck now, bumping up the road behind him. He was certain that the arrival of the truck would only herald a level of hilarious antics best viewed from a distance. Visions of YouTube stardom beckoned.
Sebastian and Joaquin stood guard on the banks of the pond, where, until Mark had arrived, they'd being trying to shift the beast from the pond. Tomás and Juan Pablo sat on the low stone wall that marked the property boundary, ready to reopen the gap in the fence if the buffalo should show interest in rejoining the herd. The idea that it might willingly walk into a truck beggared Mark's imagination. A glance uphill showed a line of watching placid buffalo, a line of judgmental nuns waiting to pass sentence on their sister's form and style in the rodeo to come.
The truck rumbled up and halted. Mark risked a glance back. Tomás and JP jumped up to unlimber the livestock ramp. Meanwhile Mark's neighbor, Arnold, jumped down from the cab. Arnold had made some millions in high tech, before "following the dream" of moving to Napa Valley. The buffalo were just the latest in a series of "entrepreneurial" exploits. He didn't look ready to herd anything bigger than a spreadsheet, in his moccasins, pink polo shirt, and Dockers.
"Mark, sorry about this," Arnold began. "Have you met Cressida, my cow whisperer?"
From the other cab door emerged Arnold's livestock expert. At first all Mark could see were the boots, roper boots that permitted easy walking. Then thick blue jeans, a denim Western shirt, and finally Cressida's face peeked around the corner of the truck.
"It's going to take more than a whisper..." he started. Her eyes locked onto his and he only managed to croak out a finishing "...um." The connection he felt was intense, visceral. His heart skipped a few beats and his face flushed.
What was this feeling?
"C'mon," she said, her voice low. "I need you out of the way so that Monica here can get back to her herd."
"Monica?" Mark heard himself say, as if from Mars.
"We name all our cows. They're for milking, after all, not eating, and a happy buffalo is a productive buffalo." He found himself herded off to one side.
She called out to Monica, showed her curry brush, standing stock still on the shore. In a few minutes, the huge black shape had meandered over and, before he knew it, was walking willingly into the truck.
Arnold and Cressida mounted up and drove away. Looking back towards the property line, Mark could swear the other buffalo were covering their eyes, tunelessly muttering "nothing to see here" beneath their breath. Their disappointment was palpable.
What he didn't know was that Cressida had, in that moment, felt whatever it was too. She sat, gob smacked, in the cab of the truck trying to get her heart rate under control. "Who was that man?" she thought.
"You wouldn't believe it! This one tiny woman got a ton of water buffalo into that truck after the best Tomás and the guys and I could do was get her off the vines," Mark said at the end of his graphic description of the afternoon's events. He hadn't mentioned the fluttering of his heart, but then, he hadn't come to terms with it--or even understood what it was--yet.
Andie stared at her meal, pushing the pea shoots around on her plate. It seemed like yet another farming problem. "I've always been a city girl," she thought. "What am I doing listening to the daily yawn-inducing drama of watching grapes grow coupled with the charm of operating a chemical plant? What was the big deal with the neighbor's fences anyway?"
They'd moved here eighteen months ago, just after Mark's father had passed. At first, it had been an adventure. Tall and statuesque, she'd enjoyed playing hostess for winery events, decorating for the holidays, entertaining the staff. But, in her second season of it, she'd grown bored. Conversations tended to revolve around agricultural concerns--rainfall and frost and such--or about wine geeky stuff--brix and micro-oxygenation and how much French oak so-and-so was using.
Andie had been happier when they'd first met. Then Mark was the "man about town"; entertaining, schmoozing, doing tastings from the offices in San Francisco. And lately he'd started pestering her about starting a family. She didn't feel ready for that. She felt disconnected and out of sorts.
Sensing her displeasure, Mark changed the topic. "I was thinking. Let's plan a getaway. We can go to the City and..."
Andie made a face.
"I need a vacation, Mark. How long since I've had any real time off?"
"I guess it's been a bit. I don't think any of us expected Pops to pass like that. And with the finances..."
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you. I just, uh, need some time, hon. I'm thinking of going on that South Seas cruise I mentioned. Susie and Beth invited me along and it would make a nice break."
Mark could feel his face crinkling up, the objections--financial, timing, practical--leaping front-of-mind. But he pushed them down. "Sure, hon, that sounds like fun. Trudy can take care of crush," he suggested, referring to his sister, who was, after all, the head winemaker.
Andie peered at him sadly. "I wasn't thinking of
us
going, although I'm sure that would be nice. I... I could use some time to recharge. Besides, we both know you can't dump the crush on her."
Mark sighed. Maybe some time apart would be good? Restore the fire a bit? "How long is it?"
"It's fifty-three days," she said. "It leaves from Seattle and sails across the South Seas."
"Wow! That's... long."
