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The soil brought people luck, but Alana had never had a lucky day in her life.
The exhaust fumes smothered her as the Greyhound rolled past the bench she occupied. It wasn’t lost on her that this was the way her mother had arrived in Ithaca all those years ago. Hopeless. Penniless. Utterly useless.
She lit a cigarette and sucked on the sweet smoke, then tipped her head back and exhaled skyward. Eventually she would need to make her way to the vineyard. But right now, she wanted to embrace the warm August day. She felt like a feral back-alley cat, finally getting a moment of peace, the sun shining on her face.
After two cigarettes and endless procrastinating, she slung her duffel over her shoulder and hitched a ride to Brent. She considered walking from the tip of Cayuga all the way to the eastern bank of Seneca, but her dying phone said it would take eleven hours, and it was already four o’clock.
A burly man with a full beard wearing a flannel pulled over in a commercial van, a cheery Lakeside Artisanal Baking logo printed on the sliding back door.
“Don’t mind the mess.” He shuffled stacks of papers and an apron covered in flour to the middle of the bench seat. “I was at the bakery all morning before I had to make my delivery.”
She squished her duffel by her feet and slammed the door shut. “Not a problem. Thanks for helping me out.”
“Where are you headed?”
She exhaled, turning her eyes to the road. “Brent.”
“Perfect! I am as well. How lucky is that?”
She pressed her lips into a smile, hoping she seemed sincere. “Yeah. Lucky us.”
The charming man, Trent, didn’t mind filling the silence with chatter. He talked about his day at the bakery, baking artisanal sourdough breads and baguettes and pastries, and how he was heading home to his wife and two kids. “Evie said she made fajitas tonight, and homemade guacamole. We usually don’t drink on weekdays, but we recently discovered this vineyard with some of the best wine we’ve ever had.” He brightened as the car curved along the lush, green countryside, the fields covered in vibrant red and violet wildflowers. “The vineyard’s in Brent, actually! You may have heard of it.”
Her stomach dropped. “There are a lot of vineyards in Brent.”
“Oh, I know. But none compare to Marien.”
She curled her fingers into fists around the frayed ends of her black sweatshirt. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” she replied, her throat tight.
The man was beaming. It was obvious to her now.
She should have known.
“Anywhere in particular you want me to drop you off in Brent?”
She twisted her hair into a bun, tying it with the rubber band around her wrist. “You can pull over when we hit the Donut Hole.”
“Oh! You didn’t hear?”
She paused, hands still in her hair. “Hear what?”
“That place closed down around two years ago. The building was completely demolished. There’s a brewery there now.”
Donut Hole…closed? Demoed? A brewery?
She snapped the band in place and crossed her arms, steeling herself. “Right, well, it’s been a minute since I was ho—here. Since I was here.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “You can drop me off at the brewery then, thanks.”
Trent pulled over when they reached White Tail Brewing. The building was sprawling, couples and families scattered across a manicured lawn with Adirondack chairs and picnic tables. A teenage boy plucked a Dave Matthew’s song inside a small amphitheater.
She slid her duffel out of the truck. “Thanks again.”
“Not a problem! Welcome back.”
Alana smiled, that tight feeling in her throat returning. She nodded, then closed the door.
She squinted and watched Trent as he drove down the road she needed to walk. She shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand and gazed upon the bright blue waters of Seneca Lake rolling down the hill below, the plots of vines planted along the slopes.
