A bell is ringing, not the urgent clang of the alarm, but a cheerful summons. Feet pound outside in the hall, voices murmuring. John wakes with a groan, dragging the pillow across his head.
"Are you regretting agreeing to stay for the harvest," Hero giggles beside him.
"What does your family have against sleep?"
"It is better to start the grape-picking before the sun is up."
He grunts and forces himself from the bed. They take turns to dress in the bathroom. John shaves the creeping stubble from his jawline, cursing as he cuts himself.
"Are you alright?" Hero appears in the doorframe.
"Yeah," he washes his face, "Just a nick."
She grabs a handkerchief and presses it to the cut, soaking up the trickle of blood. They stare at each other; he can trace the red bow of her lips, the faint freckles on her face, the violet dusting under her eyes crinkled from recent waking.
"Maybe I'll grow a beard." He hasn't had one since the war. "Think it would suit me?"
Her gaze flickers over his face, the pads of her fingers brushing his cheek. "I can't imagine anything that wouldn't."
His pulse does a little leap. She smiles and pulls back her hand, lowering it to her side bashfully.
He considers her and what he should do, before turning back to the mirror to finish his shaving. "How are you feeling? Not sick?"
Her hands wrap around her stomach. "Not at the moment."
"Don't push yourself too hard today." He puts down his razor, turning back to her. "If you need anything, I'll be there."
Her lips curve in a soft line and she looks at him from beneath her lashes. "Thank you, John."
A banging at the bedroom door startles them and John is glad he wasn't shaving. Beatrice's voice calls out. "Hero! Hero! Are you awake?"
Hero rolls her eyes. "We are now!"
"Hurry up or I'll pick more grapes than you. Again."
Hero stalks from the bathroom, shouting "It's not a competition!" in a petulant voice that signifies it is.
They finish getting ready and join her family for coffee before tramping outside to begin the picking. Just like with the frost, the whole community appears to have gathered around the vineyard. The sky is a whorl of blue and lilac clouds, a streak of amber on the horizon. They shuffle into a line, each receiving a curved knife and instructions on where to harvest.
"Hero," Leonato hands them both a knife. "Make sure he knows what he's doing. We don't want him cutting off his fingers and getting blood on the grapes. It would ruin the taste of the wine."
John flips the knife in his hand. "Don't worry, I've used one before."
Leonato hmphs.
They wander on, Hero's shoulder brushing against his own, voice low and amused, "Aren't you happy you stayed?"
He grins.
They set-off in their section. Despite his confidence in front of Leonato, it takes John a frustrating number of attempts to saw the stubborn vine.
"Like this," Hero shows him, bending her head close to his own and severing the stem with one, swift motion.
John mimics her actions, cleaving the vine and soon they are filling their crates, making progress along the row. The sun rises, its blood orange rays making it appear as if the horizon were on fire; changing from peach to apricot to a golden mango hanging above them just like those he had seen during his deployment. The shadows retreat, the colours of the vineyard flourishing in the morning sun. Heads and hats bob in-between the leafy rows, the full household and staff toil to harvest the vast estate, voices chattering all around.
John doesn't catch a bunch fast enough and it lands on the ground. Before he can pick them up, Leonato is there, inspecting the grapes, blowing off the dirt. John bites down his frustration as he is given a hard, condescending look.
"A few crushed grapes may not mean much to you, but these are our livelihood."
John swallows a retort as Leonato moves on to patrol another section.
"Don't mind him," Hero murmurs, dropping beside him. She plucks a grape from the bruised bunch, plopping it between her lips. "Mmm, delicious."
She grins at him, her floral dress swishing around her bare legs as she walks away. It is not until another picker blunders into the crate beside him that John breaks from his trance and resumes the harvest.
With the sun comes the heat, sweat gathering on his brow. A refreshment stand is erected; homemade lemonade and juice is handed out along with fruit, snacks, and sandwiches. The work is not strenuous, but to be at it for hours is tiring and John knows his muscles will be aching tomorrow from all the stooping and crouching. He cannot imagine how those much older than him will feel, but still they throw themselves into the task wholeheartedly and with cheer. That sense of community that struck him with the frost returns to him now, and he is a part of it.
He keeps a watch on Hero as they work in tandem. A few times she hurries into the house and returns abashed, but with so many people around and everyone's attention on the harvest, he doesn't think anyone notices her absence.
"You should take a break," he says, noting her pallid complexion and sluggish motions.
"I'm… fine," she mutters, cutting another grape stem. "I have… helped with the harvest since I was a little girl… I can manage."
"Just a ten minute sit down. You can help your aunt with the refreshments."
Her shoulders slump, head bending like a daisy in the heat. "Maybe a quick rest…"
He guides her across to her aunt, placing her on a chair.
"Heatstroke," he explains, answering Ursula's curious glance.
She gives her niece a sympathetic smile and pours her a glass of lemonade.
John leaves her there and returns to the rows, determined to harvest twice the number of grapes to compensate for Hero's absence. At some point, he looks up and notices Claudio in the row behind him. The other man casts furtive glances in his direction, slashing grapes from the vine.
John arches a brow and carries on, cutting faster than before. As he moves, he notices Claudio quickening his own pace. John increases his speed, careful of his fingers as he wrestles the leaves out of the way to get to the stems. He hears the snip, snip of Claudio racing behind him. John pushes his crate along with his foot, catching his grapes as they fall. Claudio darts along the rows, slicing through stem after stem.
The two men sprint down the rows, stripping the vines of their fruit, filling their crates with bunches of grapes, oblivious to the heads turning in their direction (Beatrice comments to a bemused Hero, Ursula smiling beside them, while Antonio jostles Leonato and jokes about their own youthful competitions). Once full, they rush their loads over to the growing stack, swerving around the other pickers and skidding to collect another box to fill, each scrambling to keep ahead of the other.
On one such run, Claudio seizes the lead, hurling a gleeful glance at John before his shoulder knocks into the passing Baz. The youth stumbles, his basket tumbling from his hands, the grapes scattering across the ground. Claudio grunts but does not slow, hurrying back into the rows.
John crouches beside Baz, helping to collect the grapes. "You alright?"
"Yeah," Baz chirps, slightly rattled. "Should have been more careful."
"He should have paid more attention." He helps pile the grapes into the crate.
"Heh, think he is regretting that now." At his confused look, Baz gives a shrewd grin. "Thanks for the assist, coz."
They place the full crate with the others and head back into the rows. John does not bother to see how Claudio is progressing, no longer interested in competing.
Hero sidles up to him. "Hey, how is it going?"
"Good, are you feeling better?"
"Much, thank you." She leans around to kiss him on the cheek. John stares stunned as she smiles. "Hand me back my knife, we have a lot of ground to cover."
The grape harvest carries on through the day until the sun starts to sink in the sky. Between all of them, they have covered perhaps a third of the vineyard. John is starting to realise how many extra days of labour he has committed to staying here; the thought knots in his stomach but it is not altogether unwelcome.
"Do you regret giving into Antonio's cajoling now?" Hero asks as he wipes the sweat from his forehead, fanning himself with his hat.
"No," he answers honestly. "It's not bad work. Beats going door-to-door trying to make a sale."
She clasps his hand, lifting it up to inspect; her fingers dyed red from the grape juices grace his palm. "We'll see how you feel when the blisters form."
John has the strange, coiling urge to take her fingers and taste the juice on their tips. He resists, retracting his hand and shoving it deep into his pocket while he crooks a smile. "Blisters, sleep-deprivation. You folk sure know how to show a guy a good-time."
Her mouth curves, as red as her fingers. "Oh, wait til after the harvest, when we stomp the grapes. We'll show you a good-time."
:-x-:
The sky bleeds with the setting sun. Instead of traipsing inside to the dining room, food is served outside, tables set-up along the path for the whole community to gather around, helping themselves from bowls and platters, laughing and clapping each other on their shoulders.
"Isn't it a bit premature for celebration?" John asks Hero as they wind through the crowd.
The volume of workers is most apparent now that they are swarming in one place instead of spread across the rows. It is astonishing the vast number, but city life and the war has adjusted him to the crush of bodies, his skin only itching a little.
Hero seems at ease with the writhing throng, slipping between the mass of people to load food onto a plate and darting back without a hair out of place. "This is what's so nice about the harvest, we work in the fields all day then we come together in the evening."
Everyone is smiling, pouring wine, and joking about who picked the most grapes. John is surprised by how many people greet him, as if he were one of them instead of an interloper. Hero leads him to a spot on the fringes of the celebration, where Baz is sat.
He grins at their approach. "Hey, wanna bet how long it takes for someone to bring up the war.
"Baz," Hero groans, setting the plate of food between John and her.
Baz scratches his chin, glancing sheepishly at John. "Guess that was in poor taste. But, hey, you know what's not in poor taste… Rosetta's meatballs." He plucks one from his plate and bites into it. "Mmmm… I've missed good ol' homemade cooking."
"How are you finding university?" Hero inquires, biting into a slice of grilled bread, topped with tomato and onions.
Her cousin ducks his head. "It's good, it's good. Great to meet new people my own age."
Hero hmms, considering him. She nudges a fried ball of breadcrumbs towards John. "Try the arancini, it's rice with mince and peas. It's very good." She turns back to Baz. "Are you enjoying your course?"
He shifts, picking at the potatoes on his plate. "Sure… it's interesting… it's good."
Even John can tell there is something wrong in his tone. "What is it you're studying?"
"Economics."
John swallows a chunk of arancini too fast and coughs. "With that old bore, Professor Shylock?"
"Yes, you know him?"
He grimaces, realising his misstep. "I… I studied Economics at Stanford as well."
From his peripheral he sees Hero's mouth open to ask a question before she catches herself.
Baz grins, "That's a neat coincidence."
John sips his wine, growing uncomfortable with the number of coincidences.
"How'd you find it? Hey, wait, when were you there… it'd be funny if you'd been around the same time as Beatrice."
Yeah… funny…
"Soo, maybe I should come to you if I have questions on my coursework."
John's fingers curl in his thighs. "Not sure I would be much help. I dropped out."
Hero splutters on her wine.
"Oh, jeeze, how come?"
"Baz," she hisses, wiping the dark droplets from her chin with a napkin. "Don't be nosy."
"Hey, I was just asking." He tugs a sable curl behind his ear, casting a furtive glance around. "I… um… was just… just curious… uh… because… because… I was um… thinking about dropping out myself."
Hero's jaw drops. John looks over his shoulder to check no one is listening.
She leans across the table, her voice low, "What, Baz — Why? You've only just begun."
He folds his arms, shoulders hunched. "It's not… it's just… Stanford is what my parents want, what your father wants. It's not what I want."
"But—"
John presses his hand to Hero's elbow, skin-touching-skin. She falls quiet, glancing at him.
"What is it you want to do?" He asks Baz.
"I want… I want to be a musician."
"What do you play?"
"Trumpet, guitar, piano. I sing too."
"That is… a lot."
"Imagine when he was learning," Hero remarks, picking at her bread. "We all had to invest in earplugs."
"As if everyone didn't breathe a sigh of relief when you gave up the flute," Baz rejoins.
Hero throws a crust of bread at him
Antonio appears, slinging an arm around his son before Baz can retaliate. "What are you teasing your cousin about over here?"
Baz shoots Hero and John a quick look, willing them not to mention their previous conversation. "I was uh advising Hero to keep away from the flute if she doesn't want to drive her husband away."
"You're such a toad!" Hero goes to hurl a meatball at her cousin, but John catches her wrist.
"Don't waste good food. We can leave one of your dolls in his room later."
Baz jumps from the bench. "Do NOT."
"Oh, but Baz," Hero sing-songs, batting her lashes, "Arabella misses you."
Baz flinches, cursing, and is scolded by his mother and several other women in earshot.
The night stretches across the vineyard like a black cat and candles are lit against the shadows. Baz's prediction proves true, the mood turning maudlin with the wine, and Hero has to rescue John from a huddle of men, trading, in slurred voices, tales from the First and Second World Wars.
"Thank you," John murmurs as they walk back to the house, elbows linked. "If I had to hear once more about the honours bestowed on Claudio for valour in battle…"
Hero giggles, pressing into him. "You didn't feel like sharing your own war stories?"
"Some things are better forgotten."
She wraps both her arms around his own and squeezes him tight.
:-x-:
"Why did you stop me when Baz said he wanted to drop-out of university?" Hero asks, once they are alone in her bedroom and she is brushing out her curls.
John shrugs, the lean muscles of his bare arms shifting under the lamplight. "You were going to tell him it was a mistake."
"Isn't it?"
"Aren't you thinking about dropping out yourself?"
She folds an arm over her front, fingers splaying across her satin nightgown — it won't be long until she starts to show. "That's different. Baz has just begun."
"You've almost finished."
"You know I can't go back there."
"I don't know that."
He pierces her with his obsidian gaze and she swallows, lungs straining around a swelling in her windpipe. "I can't — I can't see him again, John. I can't."
He crosses to her, hands hovering mid-air before falling to caress the silk of her sleeve. "He shouldn't rule your life like this."
"But he does! I made a mistake, I trusted the wrong person, and now this is my punishment."
Something flickers in John's eyes, so dark they shine. "Is it… punishment?"
"Wh…what?"
"Do you… think of the baby as… punishment?"
She sucks in a breath, it tremors through her and she covers her mouth, turning away. "Oh God, I am terrible."
"No." He clasps her arms. "No. You're not. What I mean is… I want to understand. Do you… intend to keep the baby? Or… will you… give them up?"
Hero stares down at her flat stomach, hugging it. "I… I haven't considered…"
"I'm not judging you," his voice is blunt and earnest, "It is your choice and I… understand. My mother's life would have been better if she had given me up."
"She said that?"
"No," John is quick to abate her horror. "But… I could see it… how she struggled. It would have been better for her if… if she never had me."
His fingers drag down her sleeve. She catches his hands before they slip from her. "John, I am… I am sure that's not true. And… and even so… I know I am very grateful that you are here."
His fingers flex around hers and they both stare at them, entwined. The corner of his mouth twitches and he draws back.
"I have asked you an intensely personal question. It is only fair you ask one of me." He moves to his bag, unlatching the case that contains his chocolate boxes and taking one out. "I know you are dying to ask."
"John… you don't owe me any answers."
"I'd rather give them myself than you get them from someone else." He moves to the bed, sitting down and opening the chocolate box. "Chocolate?"
She walks across to the bed, perching across from him. "Should we be eating your stock?"
He plucks up one of the chocolates and bites into it. "Your uncle already ate some on our arrival. Can't sell a box with missing chocolates."
Tentatively, Hero selects a chocolate from the box and bites into it, savouring its caramel filling. "Mmm, these are good."
"If you'd like to buy a box, I have plenty."
She smiles before her gaze drops to the colourful confections below. "You said before that you don't like selling chocolates. Is there something you would rather be doing?"
He considers the question. "When I was a child, I wanted to be a pirate."
She looks back at him, delight sparking in her chest. "Really?"
"Treasure Island was my favourite book."
She grins, then glances over to where his recently washed army coat is hung. "But you didn't go into the Navy?"
"No. Turns out I suffer from seasickness."
She laughs rocking back. "Ooh, you poor thing."
He pops another chocolate into his mouth. "It was a childish fantasy anyway. When I grew up, I just wanted the best paying job I could get. I've done all sorts of things."
"But—" She cuts herself off.
Still, he catches it. "But?"
She shifts, shuffling her knees onto the bed and rubbing her arm. "But then… why drop-out of Stanford? Economics… that's a good degree."
"I had an affair with my professor."
Hero chucks a chocolate at him.
He dodges, unsuccessfully, and chuckles. "You have good aim. We should have a game of darts sometime."
She pokes him. "If you want to place sharp projectiles in my hands you best stop teasing."
He gives a wry grin. "You think there is a reason more than that I just couldn't hack it? I didn't have the greatest upbringing or education."
She reflects on this, biting into a strawberry chocolate. "You seem plenty smart to me and I don't think you're someone who quits easily."
"Stubborn to a fault, or so I've been told." He looks down at his shaking knee and his face changes. "I didn't want anything to do with Philip Aragon when he first contacted us, but my mother insisted I take the opportunity and there was some satisfaction in burning through his money. So I went to Stanford University with his spoiled prince of a son and I worked hard to prove to the other stuck-up pricks that I belonged there as much as them…"
He exhales, glancing across to her shelves. Hero watches as the shadows crack across his face.
"My mother… she was ill… she didn't tell me until it was serious. She needed treatment we couldn't afford. I asked my father for the money but… he refused." His eyes burn with a rage that sucks up all the heat. Hero shivers. "I dropped out and took every job I could. I sent the money home and lied about how I got it, let my mom carry on believing I was still a student, still someone she could be proud of…"
He falls silent, but he doesn't say any more, Hero can see it in his face how the story ends. She crawls across to him, pressing her hand over his. "John…"
She looks into his eyes, grasping for words of comfort but all the ones she can think of seem clunky and inadequate. He stares back at her, his eyes two pools of dark water, who knows how deep they go.
She gives up searching for words and wraps her arms around him, chin resting on his shoulder. She hears the inhale of his breath, and the exhale… a beat passes… and another… then his arms fold around her and he is holding her to him. They remain like that for how long she doesn't know, she does not count the seconds or the minutes, but listens to their heartbeats becoming one.
John breaks the embrace first. His mouth shapes the splinter of a smile. "We should rest. Tomorrow will be another full day."
He closes the box and carries it back to his case. Hero watches him, a confession clogs her throat like a clump of buttercups, the sap-slick petals cling to her gullet. He turns back to her and she gulps it down, the tangle of stems snaring in her ribs.
Tonight, there are no protests as he moves back to the bed, climbing in under the covers. The light is switched off and Hero sinks her head onto the pillow. She stares at the spot where John's silhouette lies, a scant few inches from her, his breathing rhythmic as the tide.
"John…" she whispers, as delicate and daring as spider-thread, "May I ask… what was your mother's name?"
He is quiet for so long that she wonders if he has fallen asleep. But then, through the darkness she hears a faint murmur, like the expelling of air as one presses on a bruise, "Clarissa… Clarissa Sutton."
"Clarissa…" she echoes, tending to each of the syllables with care. "It's beautiful. Thank you for sharing her with me.
John doesn't answer, but she hears a shifting across the sheets. She wishes she could see his face, but the dark conceals all, pressing between them. She longs to cross this final divide but holds herself still. He is not hers. Nor will she ask him to be. He is already doing so much for her, she cannot demand more.
No, she is content with the silence and lets it soothe her to sleep.