Merlot and Me

The day I met Jack was the day I remembered why the river has always ran through my blood and why a deep red merlot from Bright Cellars was my favorite wine. A name means everything and mine suited me perfectly. Samantha Maplegood. But I was over being good. So why did I decide to spend my first week on summer break at a monastery in the muggy South with few luxuries and even less visitors. Because nothing I ever did made sense or was what I really wanted to do. I’d lived for other people and now was ready to let my inner she-wolf do some howling.

I was lying in the hammock by mid-morning reading, dragonflies hovering over the azaleas, when a lady chasing a shaggy dog runs past. She nabs his leash and circles back.

“Orientation in five minutes, dear,” she says, nodding towards the retreat center lounge where tall windows revealed the other fifteen visitors already gathering.

I roll out of my comfy spot and head in. Rules. I’m quite familiar with them and ready to break them all.

While the abbey guest master explains the mandatory silent meal protocol and optional “Silence Preferred,” badge for those who want to feel not obligated to converse with the other guests or staff outside of the cafeteria, I stared at the magnificent bluebird at the feeder on the patio. It seems so sure of itself. I want to feel that way.

Someone to my right nudges me and it’s my turn.

I whip out a smile as glance around the spacious room. “Samantha from Ohio,” I say. “I teach high school.”

Father wraps up and I head to snag a special badge. As I grab one from the basket a man with dusty blue eyes says, “Now, that would be a shame.”

I swipe my bangs from my forehead to get a better view. It’s worth the effort. His chest seems a soft place to land. I wring the lanyard. I’m here to heal, not get hurt.

I slide the lanyard over my head. “I’ve talked enough.”

“Not to me,” he says. “Hope to hear you say my name before I leave. It’s Jack.”

I shrug and I press my finger to my lips.

Throughout the day and silent meals, I focus on my breathing and imagining the perfect relationship that I’d like to have. I feel into the scenes with fervor. My man’s kiss on my cheek while we picnic in the park. His hands on my face in a passionate embrace. The wind on my face as we buzz atop the lake on our boat.

After dinner of fish and rice, I meander over the hill and through the magnolias towards the river. I stretch my legs under a tree to the tune of a lawnmower and the distant chanting of the monks as they proceeded to evening vespers.

I’m touching my toes when I hear my name.

It’s Jack and he is grinning from ear to ear.

I rip the lanyard off that’s dangling from my neck. I can’t stay quiet a minute longer anyway.

"Penny for your …” Jack says.

I sit on the bench and look out over the river where the sun appears to be a half-eaten orange.

“I placed pennies on the railroad track in front of my house when I was growing up,” I say. “Feels good to see the water. I grew up along the river. It runs through my blood.”

Jack sits a bag down beside the bench and unzips it. “Which river?”

“The Ohio,” I reply, the moon glowing onto the Cooper River that is curled like a lip around the island tucked into its path.

“Fish is fine,” he says, pulling out a tuft of cheese and two glasses. “But I like a little wine to wind down with.”

“What do you do?”

Jack slides a glass of merlot into one of my hands and holds my other in his as if he were connecting us in a mysterious way.

“I teach scuba diving off the coast here in North Carolina.”

I rub the rim of my glass. "Thanks, Jack. The river runs through my bloood just like my merlot.”

Could this man I’ve connected with be the one—the special partner I’ve been waiting for? I’ll need a sign as pointed as the steeple on the abby to know for sure. Meanwhile I will indulge in the mystery of manifestation and know that sometimes not knowing is the best place to be.