Page 129 of Just for Tonight

The woman who works there is older and brilliant at what she does. She has the most amazing memory. Every time I’m there, I wonder how many units there are in the development because she remembers them all.

“2607,” she mused closing her eyes. Does she have every unit memorized? “The large one-bedroom model, with the small den.”

“That’s it.”

“Lake view?”

“Yes.”

She fixes me with a look. “Did you get the kitchen upgrade?”

“Marble counters and stainless steel appliances,” I agree. “Window treatments and upgraded flooring, extra insulation and the separate shower in the bath.”

“Nice,” she whispers, and I’m glad we’ve both agreed to ignore the building under construction to the south. Who knows? It might never be completed. “When can I show it?”

“Give me a couple of hours.”

“It won’t take long,” she says. “I have a list.”

“Do you have a studio apartment, maybe on the second or third floor? I like the building and the location. I just need a smaller space.”

“Changing jobs?” she asks with sympathy and really, she’s right.

“That’s it. Downsizing for me.”

She flips through candidates on her computer. “I have a serious bargain that isn’t moving. You could make an offer and they’d probably take it. Second floor. Small studio.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It has a view of a brick wall, which is bleak.”

“I like bleak,” I say. “Bleak is private.”

She laughs. “It is that.”

She tells me a number, I counter with another, and she says she’ll let me know. She offers to arrange the financial end so I just move from one to the other in the simplest way possible and I go for it.

Now that I accept help, I’m all in.

I’m at the moving store picking up boxes when her message comes in. It’s official. I’m moving downstairs and can pick up the key anytime. The other unit is empty and she wants mine cleared out of personals to show it tonight.

The rest of my day is spent moving stuff, even though I don’t have much. My suits fill the smaller closet. My kitchen packs up in a couple of boxes. I take the painting and leave the television, which is wired in and isn’t worth the trouble. I book movers to take my stuff to Port Cavendish. It won’t fit downstairs, but I can shop to furnish that place later.

Daylight is wasting and I need to buy a sailboat.

40

Mackenzie

It’s a perfect autumn Saturday.

There’s no chance of enjoying it, though. Environment Canada posted a hard frost forecast for tonight so we are picking like mad. Every muscle I possess is aching after four weeks of harvest, but it’s not done yet. The smell of crushed grapes is pervasive and welcome, but the cool nip in the morning air is motivating.

This is the time of year that we all pull together at the vineyard, when pretty much everybody comes out to help pick so that we can get done in time. We start before dawn and we pick into the evening. You’re supposed to pick in the mornings, only, but we left the crop on the vine later to increase those sugars and now it’s a race against the frost. Mrs. O’Neill makes us soup and sandwiches twice a day, with Opa driving the truck out from the house to deliver the buffet wherever we are. We eat quickly and get right back to work.

This week, we’ve hung tarps over the highest part of the vineyards, to protect the fruit from the possibility of frost. We’ve mounted lights on the tractors and are using them to illuminate the fields while we pick later into the evening. This year, it will be a little closer than usual. I got that week of sun, but later than I’d hoped. The grapes are perfect, heavy and sweet, but the weather might turn before we can get them all harvested.

I gambled and I really hope I don’t lose – even though Opa says even mistakes teach us something.