Strawberry Wine
By: Esther Spurrill-Jones
Tags: Lost Love, Growing Up, Fiction, LGBTQ, Memories

Hannah wandered down the path toward the river, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her jacket, a chill September wind lifting her hair. Her boots found their own way, kicking fallen leaves before her as her mind drifted back to that last summer here.

The hot July sun enveloped Hannah, clinging to her bare head and shoulders as she left the cool of the barn behind. Pamela looked up from plucking a wild daisy beside the corral and grinned, her honey coloured hair shining where it peeked out of the edges of her wide-brimmed hat. Shaking her head, Pamela reached over Hannah’s shoulder, lifted the hat that hung around her neck on a cord, and plopped it on Hannah’s red curls. “You’re going to get heat stroke if you keep forgetting to put your hat on.”

Grimacing, Hannah reached up to straighten her hat. “It makes my head sweat,” she grumbled. “And when I take it off, my hair looks like hay the horses have been slobbering on.”

Pamela laughed, a bright and joyful sound that made Hannah’s heart race. “Your hair is beautiful, silly. Come on, I packed a lunch for us.” She lifted a picnic basket in one hand, then grabbed Hannah’s hand with the other and led her toward the path along the river.

Hannah’s face burned at the compliment as she followed Pamela down the well-beaten path. She wanted to say something in return, to describe Pamela’s beauty somehow, but she didn’t have the words. She never knew what to say or do when it came to Pamela.

Since the other girl had arrived on her parents’ farm at the end of June, hired to help them out over the summer, Hannah had been enchanted with everything about Pamela.

The path narrowed and Pamela had to let go of Hannah’s hand as they walked single file. Despite the heat that made her palms sweat, Hannah regretted losing the connection.

Pamela ducked into the shade of a tree whose branches overhung the water and sat on the grass between its gnarled roots. Hannah sat across from her and helped unload the basket. Cheese sandwiches on home made bread, fresh radishes and carrots from the garden, and a glass bottle of red liquid that sparkled in the sun.

Pamela turned the bottle over in her hands and winked at Hannah. “This is new. I helped your Dad make it last week. Strawberry wine.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. At seventeen, she’d never tried wine before, but she loved strawberries.

Lips quirking at Hannah’s expression, Pamela dug two ceramic cups out of the bottom of the basket, poured one half full, and handed it over.

Trying to hide her eagerness, Hannah took the cup and held it in both hands, smelling the rich aroma of strawberries and something wilder and deeper, something on the edge of unpleasant. In awe of the other girl’s older and wiser nineteen years, she dreaded Pamela thinking her childish, so she sipped the ruby liquid carefully, hoping it tasted better than it smelled, and bracing herself to pretend she liked it.

But it was good. The sweetness of the strawberries was perfectly complemented by a tart bitterness.

And Pamela’s lips were sweet too.

A few cards and letters and one long distance call. The bittersweet taste of love found and lost.

Hannah stopped walking at the banks of the river on the well-beaten path. Leaves swirled around her, dead and dry. Across the flowing water, the fields lay brown and empty, ready for winter. Soon snow would cover it all with a thick white blanket, sleeping until spring came once again.

In her jacket pocket, her phone buzzed. She pulled it out and swore. She was late.

Twenty minutes later, Hannah walked into the kitchen and kissed her wife. “Sorry I’m late for dinner, sweetie. I was wool gathering at the old farm.”

Aki smiled. “Missing the old days?”

Hannah shrugged. “Just remembering. I have no regrets.” She put a bottle on the counter. “I picked up a treat on the way home.”

Aki picked up the bottle and raised an eyebrow in interest. “Strawberry wine, eh?”

“Yeah. My dad used to make it. I haven’t had it in years, but it was my favourite.”

It was even better than Hannah remembered. This bottle had been aged to perfection and the flavours blended and ripened in a way the new wine so many years ago couldn’t hope to match. It was still bittersweet, but richer and fuller. Mature.

Hannah took Aki’s hand in hers and leaned over to kiss the bright red wine from her lips. Yes, she had no regrets.

This story is a response to Prism & Pen’s writing prompt Little Pleasures Lost and Found.

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