“They’d be horrified, I’m sure.” Kate smiles at the two women, glad that she didn’t have to face the Schneiders’ reaction—at least not yet. She is getting dangerously comfortable with living in the moment. Holding up a mesh bag, Kate says, “You’ll be happy to know, though, that without this escaped nun’s careful planning skills, you two would be starving this afternoon. Pepe told me this morning that people often take a picnic lunch when they tour the winery, so they have something to eat to absorb all the samples they try. He had the cook give us some cheese and fruit and a couple of loaves of bread for our picnic.”
“You seem to have made a conquest of Pepe.” Sheila peers closely at Kate.
“He reminds me of the kids in Juliaca. He’s so quiet and smart.”
The women fall silent and watch the desert landscape as the bus churns up clouds of dust in its wake. Twenty minutes later the bus stops in front of a yellow stone arch with “Bodega Tacama” in stucco letters across the front. As the bus door slaps open, the three women are the only passengers to get out. They start down a long eucalyptus-lined drive; Kate breathes in the tangy scent with a pang of memory. She remembers the trip with Sister Jeanne and Tom into Coroico, where the smell of eucalyptus was everywhere. Smelling it now brings back those few hours she spent riding so close to Tom, watching his hands grip the wheel, his sharp profile alert to the dangerous drivers in the city. The thought of him is a knife, clean and small as a scalpel, and for a moment she can’t breathe. How far away he seems. Does he hate her now, or worse yet, pity her? She has surely become an embarrassment to him by this time, for Sister Josepha would probably have spoken to him, remembering what Kate had told her in confidence. Well, so what? He loves her; he said it over and over. He laughed at her qualms. Now he will see how serious is her love. He underestimated its force.
As they round a curve in the driveway, Kate sees a green oasis amidst the desert. Off to the left is a yellow stone house, shaded by sycamore trees. On the veranda, geraniums and roses sprout from clay pots, and a wicker shade is half lowered against the late morning sun. Kate sees several empty chairs and a wicker table in one corner, under which three gray cats doze in the shade.
Trucks enter and leave a courtyard ringed by low stone buildings. All around the compound grape vines stretch green and lush in the hot air of the morning. It is not yet harvest; workers are spraying the vines and walking among them to check for insects, Kate imagines. Sheila points to a sign over the nearest building and motions to the others to follow her to the office.
It is cool in the dim office where, from behind a counter, a dark-eyed young woman comes to meet them. “Buenos días, señoritas. I am Ana María Castillo, the niece of the owner of the bodega. If you like, I can give you a tour of the winery starting in about ten minutes. We may have a few more visitors, so I’d like to wait, if you don’t mind.” Her perfect white teeth flash in the dim shadows of the office.
Diane mumbles something about being Peace Corps workers, and Kate sticks out her hand before being introduced. “I’m Kate O’Neill from St. Louis, Missouri.”
It feels strange to use her old name, but she likes the sound of it.
By eleven o’clock no one else has arrived, so Ana begins the tour by leading the women across the courtyard and into the first of the low stone buildings. For the next hour and a half they walk through cool labyrinths, oak casks lying in the gloom. In precise English, Ana explains the process of making wine, the great difficulties with the vagaries of the climate, and the even greater difficulty of finding a market outside Ica for their product. “Year after year,” she says, “my uncle plods on, hoping for the miracle that will make the wine of Ica famous in the big world beyond.”
“Pepe, the waiter at our hotel, recommended your wine.” Kate smiles hopefully.
“It is a very good wine,” she says, looking at her watch. “I must leave you in the garden in back to do some wine tasting, as I have a luncheon engagement. It has been so good to meet you.” Briskly she leads them to a patio on a slight hill with a shaded picnic tables and benches. She produces three bottles, one a deep red wine, the others white. “You can start with these.” She smiles. “If you’d like to try any more, just ask the man in that office there.”
She rushes off, and in a few minutes Kate hears the sounds of a car starting and tires spinning in the gravel.
“Luncheon engagement, my foot,” laughs Diane. “She’s going to meet some dreamy Latin lover. Hey, guys, isn’t it time to imbibe?” Diane eyes the bottles of wine.
From the edge of the brick patio, Kate gazes at the surrounding fields. “There’s one more thing I’d love to see before lunch. Remember the story Pepe told us the other night about the canal that Pachacutec built for his princess?”
Sheila stands beside Kate. They both look out at the sloping fields.
Sheila says, “‘Achirana,’ he called it. ‘That which flows cleanly toward that which is beautiful.’ Is that the canal over there?” She points toward a row of small trees that line the field as far as they can see.
The two women start walking toward the trees. Behind them Diane is settled at a picnic table, pouring out three glasses of wine, one from each bottle. She waves and shouts, “I’m staying here
