The Last Bottle

Written by Julie Jindal

at Springhouse Cellar Winery

Janice traced the weathered barn on the wine bottle's label with her finger. She clearly remembered the barn – or at least she thought she did. She was no longer sure which memories were hers and which were supplemented by seeing the label every year.

It started as a warm Sunday in late August. Sam set his plate from lunch on the kitchen counter and drew her into his arms.

"Let's go for a drive," he whispered in her ear.

"I thought we were cleaning the garage today," she replied.

He stopped kissing her neck. "I think we should play hooky from the garage."

She smiled and kissed him back.

They drove east from Portland, following the shimmering Columbia River on their left. Janice dug through the glove box and found a tattered brochure. "I think more wineries have opened since we got this," she said.

"Well, we haven't even been to all of those yet," he answered.

They turned onto Highway 30 as it climbed up from the freeway and opened onto a spacious plateau. Janice gasped at the view. Bands of mahogany red accented the gray basalt cliffs, dressed with mustard yellow grasses and stubbornly green conifers. They pulled into the winery and eventually settled on the back patio, glasses of chardonnay in hand, and watched the serene river below. An occasional breeze rustled through the shade trees' leaves.

Sam pointed to the barn nearby. "If you were a farmer's daughter I'd be trying to lure you in there."

"No you wouldn't," she answered.

"Oh yes I would."

"No, because my daddy would have his shotgun ready."

Sam thought for a moment. "Well, it would be worth it." He clinked his glass with hers and took another sip.

They bought a half case of the chardonnay. Sam pointed to the barn on the label and winked.

As it turned out, their drive to the Gorge was their last carefree afternoon. Three days later, one of Sam's coworkers found him slumped at his desk. An aneurysm had burst in his brain.

Within a couple months of Sam's death, her friends helped her clear out his clothes and donate them to Goodwill. She regretted letting them talk her into it so quickly, as she missed being able to touch a favorite sweater and think of him. But her friends hadn't known about the wine. Every year she drank a bottle in his memory, and instead of drinking it on his birthday or their anniversary or even the day they met, she drank it, alone, on the August day they'd played hooky from the garage.

Today's was the last bottle. After six years, Janice knew that the grieving would never truly end. This was a maudlin tradition, she decided – the Chardonnay was well past its prime – but as she pulled the corkscrew from the drawer, grief settled in beside her like a shadowy drinking partner, and together they reminisced about the man who would have risked buckshot to love her.