Chapter Text
The sun sinks toward the horizon framing the picturesque Leclerc vineyard. The golden-bright rays gild the rows of grapevines that quilt the rolling hills. Max has never seen something so beautiful. It’s like waves cresting and rushing to shore. Like he’s standing on the beach staring toward infinity. His chest swells with anticipation, with the fear of being alone and unknown.
Rocks shift under his feet, he focuses on the sound of pebbles knocking together; it’s a comfort to have something breaking the silence. He and his companions are bone-weary and exhausted –walking has been the only form of transportation since they got off of the bus outside of Napa.
The Perez family arrived in California the same day as Max, and have been including him in their travels ever since. Mrs. Perez is always curious about Max being so young and on his own, but she doesn’t ask after he brushes off the question the first time. Max insists they not use what money they have on him, he can take care of himself, but he is glad for the company and the homemade meals. He does miss his sister Victoria, but seeing Checo, Antonio, and Paola together makes him feel less homesick.
Tall pillars of multi-colored river rocks hold an arched sign reading Leclerc Family Vineyard in vine-tangled words. A wrought iron gate stands open and a gruff looking gentleman leans against the adjacent stone wall. He flicks the butt of a hand rolled cigarette from between his fingertips and crushes it with the toe of his boot before retrieving it to push into the pocket of his jeans.
Max notes cleanliness as a priority.
“Welcome,” the voice is rough, like gravel, but he has kindness in his eyes. “I’m Jack, the foreman on this vineyard. Follow me. Por favor, sigume.”
The phrase is familiar, Max has picked up a few things during their travels and he walks side by side with Checo. Jack leads them to a white pickup truck. He opens the door and gestures for Marilú to take the seat. The rest of them climb into the truck bed and Max settles on a wheel well, resting his elbows on his knees.
They arrive at a complex of bunk houses made of stucco, stark white with dark wooden trim. The doors are arched and lead into a spacious room. There are three bunks parallel to each other along two walls and the floor is finished, its surface marked by years of wear.
Max watches as everyone chooses their place before taking the last of the empty beds and unpacking his sparse belongings. A couple of well used paperbacks in Dutch, and a beloved copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. A change of clothes, toothbrush, and a bar of soap wrapped in wax paper are placed in the trunk at the end of his bunk.
There’s also a small photograph of his mother, sister, and himself, the leftmost part marked by a white crease where he’s folded his dad out of sight. Not enough venom in Max to cut the photo and vanquish him completely, but knowing him an undeserving part of the fond memory. After stew served from the back of the white truck and a well earned shower, Max settles into bed. Ready to get his hands dirty and make a few bucks for the season. Sleep takes him as soon as his head rests on the pillow.
-
Max rises with the sun and the resounding ring of a brass bell in the distance. His stomach tenses as he bolts upright in bed, breath caught in his chest as he surveys his surroundings. He closes his eyes, counting to ten as he wills himself to breathe. Reality sinks into his sleepy mind —he’s free from his father's wrath. The memory of waking to violence still fresh in his subconscious.
There is a little conversation as they get ready for the day, everyone more a morning person than Max is, but they’ve always treated the blinking of his bleary eyes over the breakfast table kindly. They queue for breakfast and eat together, the three Perez siblings exchanging banter with each other while their parents introduce themselves to the other families. Checo knocks his elbow against Max, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, nodding over to a handsome couple talking by the truck.
“The owner and his wife.” He winks, “¿Que guapa, no?”
“No hablo Español, carnál.” Max is learning and his face mirrors Checo’s amusement with a shrug. “Better to stay away.”
Checo nods his agreement and they finish their oats in amused silence.
There are a few trucks waiting to take the workers to different vineyards. Jack introduces everyone to two of the permanent farm hands. They split them into three groups of ten.
Max follows Checo toward a navy Ford, but stops short when a hand rests on his shoulder. His muscles tense and he pulls free of the unwelcome touch. He spins, heat gathered ruddy on his cheeks, his eyes squinting to adjust to the position of the sun.
A tall, slender man with a square jaw gives him a quizzical look and takes a step back, holding his hands between them to show he means no harm.
“I’m sorry, my boy. My name is Hervé. ” His voice is gentle when he speaks and he slowly offers his hand in introduction.His accent isn’t familiar and Max tilts his head, trying to discern if he’s heard anything similar. “Welcome, what’s your name?”
There is nothing in his body language to keep Max’s hackles raised. Nothing of the lashes of violent temper he’s used to. Instead, the slopes of Hervé’s shoulders are relaxed, thumb hooked into a belt loop. His face is soft and his eyes kind as he waits patiently for Max to respond.. Max lets himself settle, focusing on loosening the tension in his clenched jaw.
“Max.” He takes Hervé’s hand, confidence outweighing apprehension, and gives a firm shake.
Hervé turns to look into his truck, gesturing to someone Max hadn’t noticed watching from the cab. A boy about his age, with shaggy brown hair that shines golden in the sun, his sharp nose scrunching as he squints.
“Come here, son. Meet Max.” The boy’s head tilts to the side with a curious glance as Max locks eyes with at him. Neither of them look away.
He offers his hand to Max with a polite smile.,
“Hello, Max, I’m Charlie.”
Max’s gaze lingers over the offered greeting , he looks like his father, the same kind eyes. Max wipes his palm against his jeans before curling his fingers around Charles’.
“Nice to meet you.”
Hervé grins, bright against the blue canvas of the sky behind him, and calls for both boys to join him in the cab of the truck.
“No thank you, sir.” Max answers, looking toward the truck-bed where Checo watches, intrigued. “I should ride in the back.”
Hervé waves away the idea, shaking his head and motioning for them to join him.
“Come on, Max.” Charles encourages, looking over his shoulder with bright eyes. reflecting the morning light. “I won’t bite.”
Max teeters, weighing the options before sliding into the seat beside Charles.
His skin is warm where they’re pressed against each other and he leans closer to the door to give them both some room. The drive to his assigned vineyard is just under forty-five minutes and all Max can focus on is the heat of their thighs touching.
They stop under a large tree and Hervé narrates to Max a story about the very old maple and the origin of this section of the vineyard’s name: Maple Hill.
He motions for Charles and Max to follow him toward their own sector of vines to harvest.
“Charlie, please show Max all you know about the grapes and harvest. Make sure he knows to care for them properly.” Charles nods with a warm smile, pushes the fringe out of his eyesight.
“Yes, father, I will show him everything.”
Charles carries himself purposefully like his father when he shows Max how to clip the stems of the grapes to keep them in a bunch. Max can tell by the way Charles looks to Hervé for his approval as he explains. His voice is deeper than Max expects from someone so scrawny, and his stomach warms when he hears Charles say his name.
“Max,” There is a slow sigh as Charles shifts his focus to him, resting his hand on Max’s wrist to adjust his hold on the shears. “You will lose a finger or two if you continue to cut in that way.”
He gestures with his own cutting tool.
“Do it that way and you will be as good as me in no time.”
They work in silence for a quarter of an hour before Max hears Charles sigh and he repositions his wrist, focusing again on his fingers. Once satisfied, Charles returns to his work.
“Why did you come to America alone?” The question catches Max off-guard after so much empty time between them. Max remains quiet for a few minutes as he weighs how much he will tell Charles.
“I am able to take care of myself.” He shrugs, lowering a large cluster of grapes into the basket strapped to his hip.
“You are young, no?” Charles pries further and Max holds his breath.
“Old enough.”
“Okay.”
To Max’s relief they leave it at that.
-
Max is glad when he hears the familiar rumble of a truck in the distance. The sun high overhead and his stomach aching; he’s hungry.
“Lunch time.” Charles grins, “good, I’m starving!” He pats his stomach for emphasis.
They sit side by side, Max resting his elbows on his knees as he eats the simple ham and cheese sandwich supplied by the Leclercs. He studies Charles out of the corner of his eye, the dark hair now toned copper in the afternoon light. The freckles on his sun kissed skin. His slender frame and strong hands. Max is certain Charles is the prettiest person he’s ever seen.
Charles looks away from his food and catches Max staring. He looks back to his own lap quickly, cheeks ruddy and ears turning pink. He doesn’t mention it, just clears his throat and folds and unfolds the handkerchief he used to mop his brow. Max is glad for the change of subject.
“My parents came to America from Monaco before I was born. I am a first generation Monegasque American. ” He looks proud, his eyes golden green, long eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks. He crumples the wax paper from the sandwich in a ball and shoves it into his pocket. Max does the same.
“Where do you come from, Max?”
He is certain he will never tire of how his name sounds on Charles’ lips.
“I am Dutch.” He finds Charles looking at him intently, sparking with curiosity. “I am from Belgium.”
Charles nods, brow furrows, a smile decorating his face.
“Do you miss it?”
Max averts his gaze to the horizon, the workers resting while they enjoy their meal. He lifts one shoulder and looks back at Charles.
“Sometimes.” He chews his bottom lip, contemplating. “I do miss my mom and sister “
His answer seems to satisfy Charles' curiosity and he points toward a distant patch of vines. “That field over there is named for my mother.” His face shows his adoration. “Pascale's Dream.”
-
Max wakes to the startling call of a rooster again, sitting upright, his lungs dragging in gulps of air. He’s becoming more comfortable with his surroundings, but loud noises still cause the hair on the back of his neck to raise. The scent of freshly watered earth wafts through the open windows along with something sweet he doesn’t recognize or have a name for. Breakfast is served from the back of Jack’s pick-up, simple hot cereal and milk fill his stomach. He tops it off with back coffee, gagging from the bitter taste —a necessary evil for him to survive the day.
He's excited for the day to begin, his thoughts already drifting toward Charles and their conversation from yesterday. Would they see each other again?
Disappointment tugs at his shoulders as he assesses the approaching vehicles. There’s no sign of Charlie. Max’s mouth curves into a frown. He takes a few moments to chastise himself and his wishful thinking before joining Checo and the others as they wait for their assignments.
The workers are split into groups again, and Max quickly scans the area one more time to see if Charles is joining them; he’s not.
Max rolls his eyes and climbs into the truck. He finds purchase on a bale of hay. His doubt doesn’t stop the hope from bubbling in his chest, anxiety twisting his stomach. They continue their work at Maple Hill where he left off, except Checo works where Charles had been the day before and Max shouldn’t care so much, but he does. Checo is fast, clipping at just the right place to free the heavy vines from their lucious bounty.
Max reminds himself of the correct positioning and snips the stems with building confidence. He has always been good with his hands, delicate slender fingers deftly trimming the grapes from their vines. A boombox plays an old Richie Valentine record, the sun high overhead. Checo sings along with the music and Max feels at home.
The grating sound of rubber on gravel alerts Max to the hunger pains sending shocks to his brain. Something like hope flutters behind his ribcage as Max watches Charles swing his legs out of the cab and skip to the back of the truck to lower the tailgate. He watches him hop into the bed and tug a large cooler toward the forming line.
Max shuffles in behind Checo, trying not to be obvious in his excitement. He stretches his arms above him, twisting his torso in both directions until his muscles sing. The line moves quickly, Charles handing everyone a wax paper wrapped sandwich, apple, and a cup of coffee. Their eyes meet over the workers’ heads, Charles’s golden green irises are radiant at this angle and a smile paints his face.
Max’s breath catches in his chest. Charles isn’t just pretty.
Charles is beautiful.
Max’s heart is beating double time as he reaches for his lunch, their fingertips brush when he struggles to balance everything, his apple losing its fight with gravity, falls and bounces off the tip of his boot. They both watch it roll under away and Charles laughs, a sharp deep reverberation from his chest. “Oh no, Max!”
He slides from the truck to crouch while Max bends at the waist, nimble fingers grasping for the fruit when they collide, Max's head crashing into Charles' chin. The ringing in his ears persists as he stands, rubbing the sore spot where they made contact. His cheeks flush when his eyes find Charles, his own face bright with amusement, fingertips massaging the affected area.
“There are plenty of apples,” he chuckles, bending at the knees to pluck the apple from the dirt before placing it back into the basket. Charles replaces it with a fresh one, taking Max’s hand with his and gives him the apple.
Max finds a spot in the shade under the large maple tree. He’s a few bites into his cheese sandwich when he hears approaching footsteps. Curious eyes follow the long shadow to find Charles who takes a spot next to him and begins eating.
They are silent for a few moments before Charles breaks it with a small chuckle.
“My chin still hurts. How’s your head, eh?”
“It’s okay.” Max offers a small shrug. “I’ve had worse, you know?”
Charles is quiet again, the crunching of apples and hum of conversations in Spanish from around them fill the void.
“I’m sorry.” He turns to look at the other boy with a lopsided smile. “I have a very hard head.”
They both laugh and Max looks at the space between them where both of their hands rest. He tells himself he shouldn’t, but Max ignores his intuition to lean more toward Charles. He scans the surrounding vines, awestruck by the vastness of the space. There is peace in being surrounded by only the grapevines. No loud voices yelling his name in anger and no forceful hands bending him to their will. Max takes a deep breath, savoring the scent of the harvest.
“Your home is so beautiful.”
“Thank you Max, it is my favorite in the Fall.”
-
It’s early October when the season ends. Max learns many things during his three months harvesting grapes, but nothing stands out more than how much he enjoys the time he gets to spend with Charles.
His impending departure weighs heavily on his shoulders. They move with the work Mrs. Perez reminds him in their last week, knowing eyes soft and full of compassion for him. The thought of perhaps never returning to the Leclercs is prevalent in his mind; he will always carry the memories of Charles, no matter where his feet take him.
They’re coming in from a long day in the yards when Hervé calls his name.
“Max!” He motions for him to come over to where he’s standing under a large oak tree near the goat pen. Max takes a deep breath as he walks toward Charles’ father, still in awe of the striking resemblance. He takes his hat off to wring it between his hands. Hervé’s broad smile lets Max know that this isn’t a reprimand and his shoulders relax as he stands front and center where he was beckoned.
“Sir?” Max asks, curiosity teased by the apprehension on the usually confident man’s face.
“Max, the season is ending and I am worried about you, my boy.” His hand raises, as if he means to set it on Max’s shoulder but thinks better and lets his arms fall to his sides. “Pascal and the boys, and myself. We want you to stay here.”
Whatever Max had expected to hear from Hervé’s voice it is not this; the kind man who gave him an old pair of Lorenzo’s boots when he noticed the holes in Max’s –offering a place to stay.
Offering safety and stability he has been missing since immigrating to the states, aside from the Perez family charity. Max averts his gaze to their feet, dust covered boots resting on red clay mud.
Life couldn’t be this good, he doesn’t deserve it.
He hasn’t earned it.
Just because he is young doesn’t mean he can’t take care of himself. The offer comes from the heart, but Max does not need anyone’s help –he even did Lorenzo a favor to pay off the boots.
He shakes his head, blond fringe falling onto his forehead. “Thank you for the offer, sir, but I am fine on my own.”
–
Checo wakes him early the next morning with a slight shake and whispers, “it’s time to go, cabron.” Max’s eyes snap open and he shakes the sleep from his head. He dresses quickly and grabs his rucksack, heavier than when he came thanks to a traveling sister who brought the kids outdated textbooks. His heart sinks when he realizes Charles will still be asleep and he didn’t get to give him a proper goodbye. They’re piling into the truck bed when he hears his favorite sound calling saying his name.
“Max, wait!” Charles rushes to close the distance between them, throwing a pleading look toward Jack before pushing a worn paperback into Max’s empty hands. Blue eyes stare at Charles as he smiles, their fingertips brush in a lingering touch and Charles leans closer to Max and says,
“This is my favorite book. We can talk about it when you return in the fall.”
Max doesn’t know what to say, can barely get out a quiet “Thank you.”
“In the truck, kid!” Jack is impatient, “Or we’ll keep you for another season.”
He climbs into the truck and settles on the wheel well, curious eyes reading the title of the novel in his hand before looking up to watch Charles form getting smaller in the distance. Smiling and waving with a forlorn look to his green eyes that Max knows is mirrored in his own.
The Grapes of Wrath.