I use last night’s tips to put some gas in my tank. It looks like a twenty minute trip through the countryside. Out here, there’s a lot of nothing once you get out of town. I probably won’t pass a gas station. The landscape seemed really strange to me when I first came to California. The Georgia countryside is green, lush even in the height of summer. Here, the hills are brown, barren, like they’d been dug up for some huge construction project and never used. The weird peeling bark of the eucalyptus trees freaked me out, too. I was never super outdoorsy, but it’s strange to be in a place w
here you don’t know the names of any of the plants. Like being on another planet.
Since moving to California, though, I’ve taken up hiking with a field guide, learning about my new home. Now I probably know more about the landscape here than the one where I spent my first eighteen years. Now when I visit Gran, the lushness of the foliage gives me the creeps. It’s too much, like it’s encroaching, like the plants are as crowded as the people.
The drought has really taken its toll. Fields that should be full of green produce, almost ready for harvest, have curled brown leaves and clouds of dust. "It’s some scary Grapes of Wrath shit," Dave said last week in the bar. He’s not wrong. My community’s livelihood rests with agriculture. If there’s nothing to pick, those kids are going to go hungry. Or back to Central America.
About ten miles outside of town, my car starts making a gurgling noise. I roll down the window to listen and the hot air feels like a convection oven. The sound is coming from the engine. I slow down and the noise gets a little better, I think. I turn on the radio to drown out the noise. Weirdly, that doesn’t work and, at last, the car starts to choke and stutter to a stop. Great.
No, I don’t have AAA. I never drive, remember? Seemed like an unnecessary expense until today. I take out my phone to call Corbin and tell him I won’t make it. No service, of course. I take a swig from my water bottle and hope it will last me until someone comes by. Luckily, I brought my book along, in case Maeve was just inclined to sleep all day.
I’ve settled in for a hot, sweaty read, when I hear a distant engine. I close my book and get out of the car so I can wave the driver down. To my relief, it’s a family in a pickup truck. Families seldom murder strangers on the roadside. Pickup truck drivers often know how to fix stuff. They pull over and the driver gets out. He’s a short Hispanic man, I think I recognize him as a parent at the school, but not of one of my kids. The kids in the middle of the bench seat look younger than third grade.
"Hola," I say, and tell him–in Spanish–that my car has broken down. Well, that my car is broken. I speak pretty well, but I’m not fluent when it comes to car-repair Spanish.
He nods and tells me to pop the hood. He pokes around under there for a while, taking something out and back to his truck before returning and sticking it back where it was. I have no idea what is going on, it may as well be abdominal surgery, for all the help I could be.
When he drops the hood and tells me to start it, the engine roars to life. “I cleaned the (thing I don’t understand) and that will help. You need a new (thing I don’t understand).”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know those words,” I tell him.
He waves at the truck and a little boy hops out and races over to us. He speaks rapidly to the boy, I catch only that he’s asking the kid to translate for me. “He says you need a fuel pump but he thinks his fix will last a day or two,” the little boy says. “He says drive slow and don’t put on the air.” He drops his eyes shyly. “Are you a teacher at Excellence?” he asks.
“Yes, what grade are you in?”
“I’ll be in third,” he says.
“Well then, you’ll be in my class! And you’re my favorite student already. What’s your name?”
“Hugo. Hugo Alvarez.”
“I’m Ms. Franklin,” I tell him, extending my hand. I shake with Hugo and turn to his father saying “Vanessa Franklin.”
His dad smiles at me, saying “Cesar Alvarez.”
Hugo tells him who I am and he smiles bigger and nods at me.
"Muchos gracias," I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a twenty. It’s all I have left, but I should get a little more tonight at the bar.
Cesar Alvarez shakes his head and waves the money away. “You’ll need it for your car,” he tells me. And he’s right. They wave as they drive back toward town and I ease out onto the road, windows down. It’s hot and dusty, but at least I’m moving.
I’ll need this higher salary just to keep my car going. Car repairs, higher rent…suddenly it’s not as much as I thought. But still more than I was making at Anne’s. Maybe it will go well and I can ask for a raise. I did a little research while I had my coffee this morning. There wasn’t a lot of information available from a Google search of “Corbin Pierce,” but I did learn that his family has textile factories in India and corporate offices in Boston in addition to the vineyard here. I also learned that Maeve’s mother–Corbin’s wife, Elise–had died in childbirth.
There was only a notice in the Boston Globe, Corbin’s name came up in the “she is survived by” list. There were no details that I could find, but losing a wife that way would certainly explain the haunted look in Corbin’s blue eyes. It’s only been eight months, he must just be picking up the pieces and getting back to work. That poor little baby, to never know her mama at all! At least I have some memories to hold on to.
After only one wrong turn-off, I see a sign for “Domaine Chanterelle.” The turn is onto a dirt road and soon the dust is nearly choking me. My little car chugs up a fairly steep hill and as I crest it, the view takes my breath away. I hit the brake and just stare.
The rolling hills are covered in evenly spaced rows of vines, curving along the shape of the earth. The leaves are a rich, well-watered green, the fruit hanging heavy on the brown vines. Ahead of me, the drive curves down and around, through the vineyard, leading to, well, a castle.
I mean, it doesn’t have turrets or a drawbridge, but “castle” is the word that comes to mind. Like the sort you’d see in the French countryside. I imagine, anyway, I have never been to the French countryside. But damn. It’s huge, made of light colored stone with a million windows. It has those perfectly trimmed bushes that look like upside down ice cream cones. I can see the green rectangle of a tennis court. I see a curved blue edge of what is likely a pool, partly obscured by trees and rocks.
So…rich, then. Private plane rich. Castle rich. I let the car start the descent toward the front gate. Because of course there’s a front gate. When I pull up to the little gatehouse, a tubby middle-aged guy comes out.
“This is private property,” he says sternly, “you’ll need to turn around.”
“Isn’t this Domaine Chanterelle?” He seems so annoyed, I think that maybe I missed a turn-off sign. Maybe this is someone else’s castle.
“Yes, but there are no tastings here.”
It takes me probably a full minute to process that he thinks I’m a wine country tourist. Flattering, considering that my car and I are both covered in road dust. “Oh, sorry, Mr. Pierce is expecting me. I’m Vanessa Franklin? The nanny?”
The guard just peers at me. Clearly, Corbin didn’t tell him I was coming. “Just a moment, miss.” He goes back into his little hut, closing the door behind him. I’m reminded of the guard at the Emerald City gates in The Wizard of Oz.
Apparently the wizard told him to let me in because he unlocks the gate without a word and it slides open to allow me through. I want to ask him where I should go, where I should park, but he’s not even looking up, so I just drive forward. I think I’m doing okay for brains, heart, and courage, but that wizard is welcome to give me some cash.
I pull onto a pad where far nicer cars are parked. I’m really bringing down the value of the real estate here. As I get out, I can see my reflection in my back windows. I look like a crazy person. No wonder the guard was skeptical. My hair is in wild wisps around my face, every strand dusted with light dirt When I take off my sunglasses, I can see the clean patches around my eyes, the rest of my face filthy. I look like an extra from Oliver. Not much to be done now. I ring the front bell and hear a deep ding-dong within.
I’m expecting a butler in a full tux or at least a maid in a black dress and white apron, so I’m surprised when Corbin opens the door.
“Vanessa! I’m glad you’re here,” He takes me in and chuckles. “Did you get here in an open boxcar?”
“I wish. No, my car broke down and the nice man that got it going again told me not to
use the a/c. It’s, uh, dusty out there.”
“I should have sent a car for you. I’m sorry, I didn’t think.” He looks genuinely mad at himself.
“How could you know I drive a heap? I seldom drive at all because I live right in town. Even I didn’t know what shape it was in. It’s fine. I’m just grubby now, is all.”
He ushers me in, saying, “Maeve is napping. Why don’t you take a shower? I’ll give you something to wear and ask Connie to wash your clothes.” He smiles, “Wouldn’t want Maeve chewing on your hair with all that road dust in it.”
It feels really weird to say I’ll take a shower in this man’s house, but he’s right. I’m way too dirty to take care of a baby, so I agree and follow him up the grand, sweeping staircase. I want to take pictures so I can send them to Asia. What if he throws me out when he realizes I know nothing about babies? I at least want photographic evidence that I was here. But I leave my phone in my bag.
He opens a set of double doors into a bedroom that looks like something from a decorating magazine. Everything is perfectly harmonious: no weird gifts from friends on vacation, no ratty stuffed animals from childhood, no storage bins from a Target end cap clearance. It looks like everything in the room was purchased at once, put in place, and never touched again. It’s as big as my whole apartment.
“The bathroom is there to the side of this guest suite,” Corbin says. “Just leave your things on the bench, and Connie will come in to leave you fresh clothes and collect your dirty ones. When you’re done, just text me.” He seems weirdly nervous as he steps back to the doorway. “Okay, uh, happy showering!”
“Thanks,” I say as he closes the door behind him.
I look around the room. No photos. No seashells from the beach. It’s weird. It’s like a hotel room, where you can just stay for a bit and then go, leaving no impression and having no impression made on you. I take out my phone and take a couple pictures. One of the huge four poster bed with a dozen throw pillows, each in a different pattern with the same grey and white color scheme. I take a photo of the dressing table, low with a big mirror. Like something a movie star in an old movie would use. It has an old-fashioned crystal perfume bottle, the kind with a little fabric bulb hanging off of it. The fabric, of course, matches the bed linens.