Miracle Read Free Page B

Then, wielding a pair of razor-sharp clippers so swiftly that Amy gasped with fear, he snipped a smaller cluster of grapes and shoved it into his mouth. He stripped it with one ferocious tug of his teeth then slung the empty stem over his shoulder.
    “A cocky drunk, ain’t he?” someone muttered.
    Amy gaped at him. The others chuckled. At any second Beaucaire would come thundering down the aisle of trellises and raise hell. It would be spectacular entertainment.
    What would the newcomer do next? For a man who was dirty and apparently soused, he had an aura of graceful arrogance. But then he went to a trellis post and leaned there heavily, resting his head on one arm. He no longer looked imposing. Fatigue seemed to drag at every muscle of his body. Amy clenched her hands, feeling a misfit’s sympathy for another misfit but wanting to scold him for making a fool of himself.
    She didn’t dare. He looked dangerous—his hands were big-knuckled and dirty; ropy muscles flexed in his forearms. He wore his solitude like a shield. He swayed and stared fixedly at the ground, as if searching for a place to fall.
    “Here he goes,” a man near Amy said gleefully. “Right on his face.”
    But after a moment he dropped his clippers into a bucket and shoved himself away from the post. Staggering, he headed for a wooden crate that sat at the far end of a row. When he arrived there he disappeared around the corner.
    Amy waited breathlessly for him to reappear. He didn’t.
    “Go get Mr. Beaucaire,” someone said. “That guy’s behind that crate either taking a nap, puking his guts out, or pissing on a rose bush.”
    She swung toward the others. “No! I’ll go see what he’s doing. Don’t say anything to Mr. Beaucaire. I mean it!”
    Everyone stared at her. It was the first time they’d heard her speak in full sentences. She was shocked by the outburst, herself. “I, uhmmm, I b-bet he’s just sick.”
    “Well, Lord have mercy. We finally heard Olive Oyl make more than a squeak.”
    Everyone chortled. Amy was mortified. Her voice humiliated her when she forgot to restrain it. People laughed at her behind her back; all through school her classmates had made fun of her. She clamped her lips together and ground her teeth as if she could crush whatever it was that made her sound the way she did. She dreaded getting a job where she had to talk. She stayed awake at night worrying about it.
    But now she shoved embarrassment aside and hurried toward the crate, her heart in her throat. Behind her a woman called, “You leave that feller alone! We’re gonna go get Mr. Beaucaire!”
    Amy kept walking. Maybe she sympathized with all the ne’er-do-wells of the world, or maybe she was an expert on mean drunks. But she felt that there was some good reason for this man’s problem.
    Uncertainty pooled in her stomach. Slowing down, she crept up to the crate and stopped to listen. She heard only the rustle of grape leaves as the hot wind stroked the vineyard. Tiptoeing in the brittle grass, she sidled up to the crate’s back corner and peeked around.
    He lay on his back. He had removed the T-shirt and stuffed it under his head as a pillow. His hairy chest held her attention as it rose and fell in a slow rhythm. His hands lay beside his head, palms up, dirty and stained with grape juice but graceful-looking nonetheless.
    She stepped forward in silent awe. He slept, but there was nothing vulnerable or relaxed about his face. His mouth remained shut and firm. Above the black sunglasses a frown pulled at his brows. Up close he looked younger than she’d expected, perhaps no more than thirty.
    She shifted from one foot to the other, gazing at his sleeping form in consternation. Maybe it would be best just to leave him to his fate. She bent over and sniffed. The scent of his sweat mingled with the sweet aroma of grapes, red clay, and a faint antiseptic smell that puzzled her. She knew the smell of booze and pot; neither was present.
    Reassured,